The Laughing Lion
by iackrabbit
Summary: Diamon had a smile no Lannister should possess, and she grew up on sunlight and treasure. (Oberyn/OC/Euron).
1. Chapter One, The Monster

_**(274 AC, Casterly Rock)**_

The guards flocked to their sides, the metallic shuck of heavy armor ringing against the stone as they walked, echoing against the barren halls. Strangers stood at the entrance of her home, dark of hair and skin with deep brown eyes and the air of something grand. Diamon held the sliver of gold chain tightly, peering at the lockets with curious eyes as they entwined, the ornaments barely meeting before they unravel only to coil together once again. It was mesmerizing in a way, the tedious pattern repeating itself again and again without fail, and for some inexplicable reason it was comforting for her to watch. For a curious child such as herself she revelled in the unpredictability of life, but lately she had found herself shying away from the things that once held her fancy, favouring the monotonous routines that she once detested so fiercely.

"What is that in your hands?"

Diamon blinked, the trance broken at the sound of a queer voice, and she lowered her chains with slight discontent. Green eyes met quizzical brown, a lovely shade that reminded her of mud. He was peering down at her, and she got the feeling that he didn't think much of Casterly Rock or that of her family. Sometimes Diamon didn't think much of it all either.

"It's treasure." She finally spoke, "Found it in the rock pools."

His gaze rested on the trinkets, the sun and moon on twisted shavings of an off-gold chain, the ornamental faces tarnished, and for the first time since he stepped foot in the castle he found himself smiling.

"I am Oberyn Nymeros Martell of Dorne. You must be the little lion."

When she heard her brother and sister speak her eyes strayed, she neither confirmed nor denied his claim, though her grip on the curio never eased up. Golden hair came into view, and strong arms plucked her from the windowsill she had perched herself on. Jaime was wearing a smirk, the facade he wore for guests and the spectators that watched their every move, but today there was a crack in his bravado. It was strained, and there was no amusement in it at all, he was feeling weary and tired and unsure of himself all at the same time. And that scared her, because if Jaime felt that way then there was no hope for the rest of them. With her small hand in his large one he led her closer to the small group that had accumulated, where the strangers were talking to her sister. She could tell Cersei revelled in the attention they gave her, though Oberyn looked more bored than anything.

"Can we see him?"

It was just a whisper in a strangely accented voice, pretty but foreign much like the owner, yet Cersei's smile fell and Jaime gripped my hand tightly. He was no longer smirking, looking like he wanted to say no, to scream and shout and cry until his voice was hoarse, but he did none of these things. Instead he looked to his twin for guidance, something Diamon had seen him do many times before. Cersei always made the decisions, it was simply easier to appease her than to put up with her unforgiving glare or cruel taunts. She looked as if she were going to refuse too, but then she gave a sharp nod and Diamon found herself being led down the familiar route to the nursery.

Diamon knew the strangers had been asking to see him since they had first entered her home, in hushed voices and poorly conveyed excitement. _Soon,_ that's what Cersei had told them, over and over again as the days trickled through their fingertips and the suspense hung in the air buoyant and thick, but soon had come much too quickly for the likes of Jaime and Diamon. These strangers though, well it seemed as if soon could never come quickly enough, and they were so very keen to see her brother, as if he was the seventeenth wonder of the world. That's why Diamon had hid, toddling through the halls of her home and escaping the curious gazes of foreigners that intruded on what little peace they had mustered up since her brother's birth. Only the boy with the mud eyes seemed to take much notice, to actively seek her out as all the while Diamon clutched Jaime's tunic and burrowed her face into his back, much like she was doing now.

The endless hallways of Casterly Rock were unusually solemn, and yet despite it being abnormal she found it appropriate all the same. The only sound, barring their footsteps, was the humming of Oberyn, a soft sound that made her inch closer to the boy in order to hear it clearly. She didn't let go of Jaime though, keeping a hold of his shirt with a chubby fist as she walked or stealing his hand every now and then. Oberyn offered her a carefree smile, a sight that had become entirely foreign within these walls for a while now. She feared that she had forgotten how to smile, but as his own broadened she supposed that she had managed just fine. And if she had, in fact, managed to smile, it must has died as the nursery came into view.

Cersei struggled to push open the old door, heavy set and too big for its frame with a small crack where a dim light glowed from the room behind. She prayed it wouldn't open, that it were locked, they would have to turn around and find something else to do. Find another source of amusement, she thought bitterly, and she realised that she had become a lot more cynical lately, always finding the faults in everything everyone would do or say. Maybe she was growing up, or perhaps it was simply because of _her._ But then the door crept open with a creek that made Diamon wince, and the group swept into the room. They weren't supposed to be in here, she knew, and felt uneasy as to what would happen if their Lord Father found out.

There was a certain dampness to the room, the moisture in the air made it hard to breath and all of a sudden it felt as if she were suffocating. She listened absentmindedly as Cersei argued with the wet nurse, but her hand never left Jaime's. On the windowsill was a single candle, the only source of light in the entire room, and she prayed to the seven that it would never go out. Darkness seemed a terrifying notion at the point in time.

In candlelight he didn't look so bad, she decided, and this was the first time she had set eyes on her baby brother. He had one green eye, and the other was black, be it from the lack of light or simply because he had a dark eye. Mayhaps it was brown in the light, the colour of mud that both Oberyn and his sister shared. The head was too big for its tiny frame, but she supposed he'd grow into it eventually, his nose looked misshapen and his features either too defined or all blended together. It was a strange mix. His limbs looked small, too small for his body like his head was too big, but all in all he looked like a simple babe to her. Ugly, of course, but all newborns were ugly little things, and she was sure he'd be ugly for a while yet even if he were to be normal. Once upon a time she were ugly too, now everyone told her she was pretty. And she was sure Jaime and Cersei were both equally unbecoming as they came out of the womb, though her sister would surely deny it or throw a tantrum at the very thought.

"He's my brother." Cersei hissed, and Diamon finally peeled her eyes from him. This was the first time Cersei had called him as such, and if felt as if she were admitting some vulgar secret. Mother bore the child, carried him in her swollen belly for nine months without complaint, and she lost her life giving birth to him. She had heard the servants whisper that it was the ultimate sacrifice, and that she would live on through this child. All the whispers died along with her Mother when they found out he was a dwarf. He didn't look like Mother, he didn't look much like Father either, but he was a Lannister. A lion. That was the truth, whether Cersei or Father liked it or not.

Joanna Lannister was just a lullaby, another ghost that walked the halls of Casterly Rock. Diamon couldn't remember her much, even though it couldn't have been all that long ago, but it felt like an eternity in her head. She probably had blonde hair, but Diamon's hair was bronze, so maybe it was light brown. Did she smirk like Jaime, speak like Cersei, or maybe she had a kinder voice and a softer smile. The only thing Diamon could really recall was her eyes. Green eyes that stared at her all through the night. Though they were never there when she woke up, only in the mirror did such a shade of green stare back at her. Sometimes, when she could not get to sleep, she'd hear a voice. Just a whisper, the words too quiet to hear, but for some reason it set her at ease. All of it was one big mess, in a tangle like the chains. That made her grip the necklaces harder, Mother had said they were very pretty and it served as a reminder. If Diamon couldn't remember her Mother at all then she had this at least, a small piece of her shattered remains.

With a cruel glint in her eyes Cersei plucked Tyrion from his cradle, holding him like he were some distasteful animal she had caught pilfering through waste.

"Here he is, the little beast."

"That's no monster, he just looks like any other babe to me." Oberyon called idly from the window, his eyes roaming the horizon in the far distance, more intrigued with the idea of escape and being somewhere far from lions and rocks.

Cersei softened some, pulling the contented child closer to her budding breats, soothing the child with the rise and fall of her chest and her steady heartbeat. She almost looked motherly then, like she sometimes did when she played with Diamon's hair or dressed her up like a doll. Except those moments could never last, they were fleeting at best, and more often than not their games would end in tears. Cersei would tug and pull at her hair and slap her wrist for moving, pinching and scratching her skin when she made a sound, when she was told how lovely she looked in her dress she would be pushed in the mud or have the reddest of wines spilled over her lap, and when she dared retaliate there would be bruises she had to hide. There was nothing loving or affectionate about her sister, only hate and bitterness.

"Yes he is, he killed my Mother."

He squealed as she pinched his cock, and tears brimming in his eyes and threatening to spill over.

"Stop it." Diamon spoke hesitantly, stepping forward only to be pulled back by Jaime's iron grip. It was the grasp of someone frightened by what they were seeing, the absent mindedness of shock as he pulled her close.

Slender fingers twisted and turned the little pink rod, and Tyrion was red in the face from all his screaming and crying. The wet nurse was gone, and no one was here to help him now. She remembered all at once once that one of Mother's rings had went missing, the gold one with the pretty emeralds that shone as they caught the sunlight. Cersei said it was the sweet little handmaiden that Jaime had complimented just a few days beforehand. Father had her bludgeoned to death. Later on Diamon found the ring hidden under Cersei's bed, and when she saw her with it she had smacked her hard and said if she old anyone else she'd have her bludgeoned to death as well. She still had that ring somewhere, most likely hidden where no one would ever find it again.

"Cersei, leave him alone!"

Oberyn watched the whole ordeal, somewhat detached in a morbidly curious manner, unable to tear his gaze from it all. He had never seen someone harm a babe before, not even on accident. In Dorne they treasured their children, they didn't hurt little girls and boys. He decided that he wouldn't let his sister marry the boy, and he most certainly wouldn't be marrying Cersei by any means. He was shaken from his quiet contemplation as all of a sudden Cersei let out a cry, and her grip on the babe faltered enough for Jaime to pry it out of her hands. He turned to find the little lion standing there defiantly, watching her sister with an unyielding determination in her eyes.

And on the floor lay a tangled mess of chains, with a sun and a moon sitting side by side.

* * *

 _ **(This is one of Diamon's first memories, and the story will follow through with the main events of her life before we get into the actual TV series. I know George R.R. Martin said he doesn't like fanfiction, and to an extent I agree with his point, but I like to think I've taken a creative licence here. Diamon is my character in his world, and everything bar my character is all his, which I respect. The next chapter will likely come out soon, because I've actually wrote a lot more for this fic than I first thought and it's just editing what I already have to hand and shifting through documents at this point. Au revoir, amigos. And yes I did purposefully use french and then spanish.)**_


	2. Chapter Two, Bronze not Gold

**Chapter Two, Bronze not Gold**

 _Then leaf subsides to leaf.  
So Eden sank to grief,  
So dawn goes down to day.  
Nothing gold can stay._

Robert frost, nothing gold can stay

* * *

Oberyn found himself bored with everything golden and the lions that crept through the halls, and that was how he found himself by the cliffside. They didn't have a garden like he did at home, where the children could play and cool down in the lazy summer heat, with fresh fruit hanging idle on low branches and craftily made toys were an occupation. Even the view didn't live up to its name, and he would have gladly shared the notion of the sights to see at home being that much more better if he didn't think it would upset his Mother or Elia. It was as if he was the only one that spoke aloud when it came to the Lannister's and their plated gold breasts and pearly sharp teeth, and it wasn't just a matter of ignorance because he knew better than anyone the things his matriarch and little sister had seen during their time at Lannisport and Casterly Rock.

His Mother pitied the children the most, now that they were without their own Mother and her womanly touch, and he figured she knew the late Joanna Lannister to some extent, maybe in another life or as one Mother to another like women so often did. He also didn't want to ruin Elia's good time, because he wouldn't want to make her lovely smile disappear when he shared his thoughts, no matter how true they were. She wasn't quite besotted with the Lannister boy at least, and she was too kind hearted to befriend Cersei, much to his relief.

So the women ignored the going ons of the lions, and Oberyn was left to stew in his own terrible thoughts.

The sun was rising, but he found that even in the land of lions and gold and all things grand that it was still the same sun, the same view and the same sea. He didn't see what was so special about these Lannister's and their gold and riches, but he found that Westeros was a strange place, and he was unsettled by the prospect of Elia living in such a setting, particularly at Casterly Rock among the very people he thought of as cruel.

Elia, his sweet sister with just a streak of devilishness in her. He wanted what was best for her, and what they had found here was not it- A place where everything was strange from the food to the weather and most especially their accents, and their prudishness and properness and disconcerting attitudes. The Lannisters had made their disregard for children and small folk and anything that didn't concern them all too clear, and Oberyn thought that he had made his own views on the matter of marriage clear too. Elia would not be marrying any lion, and that was final.

Except it wasn't, because his Mother had yet to meet with Lord Tywin in a proper manner. He was going to join them, he was going to learn what it took to pauper and broker and sell children into a life of marriage and slavery and childbirth. That was the way of the world, this world, and he wanted no part in it.

It was while he was gazing upon the horizon that he saw her, the little Lannister with the brave heart and unruly hair, with those very same chains she held so dear, sitting idly upon the craggy coastline. She wasn't golden, that was what he had realised when he saw her first, instead her matted mane was a wild bronze fanning out in waves against her back and brushing against her dirty countenance as she faced the sun. He had heard that she hadn't been to her home since the incident in the nursery, and he wondered why no one went looking for her, the little girl that she was.

Only hours ago he had heard Cersei scream at her, and Jaime calling her name as she escaped her sister's clutches. He remembered vividly promises of being bludgeoned to death, something that struck the girl as familiar by the way she peered up expectantly at her sister. It made his insides churn uneasily, how she didn't seem to find anything strange in the threat, how Cersei's words were all too comfortable and practiced, and the dangerous glint in the little lion's eyes- no flick of fear or a fleeting ounce of despair to be found.

She had wrenched her arm away from her sister's bruising grip with all her might, and she had been smart enough to run, dogging her way past her brother and evading Cersei's reach.

Now, with the sun as his only witness, she stared at him with an endearing childlike quality, the curiosity and awe in her wide green eyes was entirely too innocent for what he had witnessed just last night, but it made him smile all the same.

"Shouldn't a Little lion such as yourself be tucked away in your castle at night?" He drawled, sauntering closer before sitting himself next to her on the rocks as the birds began to sing and the waves crashed below.

The sun trickled over water, emptying molten gold into the horizon as the light graced the night sky and the world shook off the darkness, all the while two people were watching from the cliffside, strangely content as the silence washed in with the tide.

Shyly, the cub perched upon her own rock let out a wavering whistle of her own, puffing out her sun stained cheeks as she blew out air and a weak but pretty sound that followed through with the wind. The birds sang their song unperturbed, and though it was different to the ones at home it was good all the same.

He sat patiently, letting out a small melody between his own lips, his arm brushing against hers lightly as he nodded towards a stray bird that edged its way closer to them.

They both watched in silence as the birds pecked absently and moved in the jagged, peculiar way that animals so often did, letting out small chirps and stuttering coos before breaking into song once move.

When he whistled again he was surprised to find the lion move closer in an effort to hear better, and so he hummed a little louder, silky notes and a warming tune enveloping the pair of them as they observed the world awaken. Another voice, more cautious and muted, joined in, breaking off at more difficult or foreign notes before becoming stronger and joining harmoniously. When the birds startled at a particularly shrill mistake he heard what he thought was a particularly lovely laugh ring out, and so he butchered his notes and murdered the tune until all the birds had fled and her laughter began to fade.

The Little Lion hesitated, her eyes flitting to the chains, inspecting them as if they were something entirely new, before meeting his with something he couldn't quite grasp.

"It's morning."

Oberyn blinked, forgetting entirely that he had asked a question in the first place and that time was in fact a reality as his eyes raked over her childishly earnest face and tender smile.

A chubby hand pointed to the distance where the sun was almost fully emerged, and she spoke fluidly and easily, "Not night. Day."

 _And shouldn't a little lion such as yourself be tucked away in your castle at night?_ Oberyn remembered with a start, and then a brilliant smile graced his lips as her smart answer clicked.

"Why, of course, how right you are, little one." He chuckled warmly and kind as he nudged her gently with his elbow, just a little surprised when she nudged him back playfully.

They stayed on those rocks long after the sun came into view fully from behind the vast ocean, with Oberyn's troubled thoughts forgotten and the little lion's serenity with her chains.

The heat began to set, humidness prepped for the long stretch of day ahead, and breakfast had long since been served and cleared away by then. Oberyn had resorted to reciting poetry in his head, poking and prodding at the girl beside him every now and then to elicit some response that reassured him he wasn't alone. Sometimes he was content enough to just watch her watch the chains dance, and he'd never seen a child so able to sit still for that long without their attention wavering. Her small hands showed no signs of clumsiness common in children as she gave the links her gentle encouragement and the momentum of the tether to swing and knot and unwind, straightening momentarily before her hands set them off again in a queer but familiar pirouette that was more a caper than a gyrate in it's gentle movements. The sun and moon always meeting in the middle before setting adrift, never apart for long before their roads met once more and they shared an estranged embrace in greeting.

"Does the little lion have a name?" He spoke suddenly as the sun and moon went their own way once more.

She grinned toothily at him, peering up at him from beneath her crown of bronze knots and curls with wide gold flecked eyes. They flitted to attentiveness at every sound the world around them made, curious and round and framed by thick lashes that dusted against her cheeks as they fluttered shut and her face looked towards the sun.

"Diamon," She spoke, "my name is Diamon."

The trinkets met once more, their motion stuttering briefly as they stayed in place before the lockets worked to disentangle.

" _Diamon_." Oberyn repeated slowly, drawing out the syllables in a lazy drawl as if to get a feel for the word, tasting her name in his mouth as his attention faded to a hushed contemplation. "A pretty name, it suits you."

It was well past midday when he returned to his family's side, and he couldn't help but wonder if he truly spent all those hours simply conversing with his little lion and watching chains twirl.

Suddenly his stay at Casterly Rock didn't seem so bleak as he set about the walk back to the Castle, and the sun seemed just that bit more golden and lions seemed all the more lovely. This new outlook didn't last very long, he blinked and the halls of Casterly Rock were just the same damp stone as the rest, the sun hurt his eyes and the lion that lay up ahead, conversing with his sweet Elia, was far from lovely.

For a fleeting moment he squinted his eyes and willed it all to come back, to let him carry on through the day with this meticulous reality, a natural high that kept him in a perfectly ignorant bliss. But the image simply blurred before all the details became a little too sharp and his eyes adjusted to the too bright sun and deceivingly hot breeze, and he found himself wandering towards the duo with a whole new spout of depressing thoughts and an overall feeling of utter dejection.

The thought of what Cersei would do to the little lion washed over him with unease. Elia couldn't be left with these people, and neither should his Little Lion, or the budding monster that just looked like any plain old babe in his eyes. Oberyn wasn't so foolish as to think the world was a safe place, and he wasn't asking for fairness by all means, but for some inexplicable reason he had fooled himself into thinking that maybe there was hope.

Westeros was a cruel and foreign land, it seemed. Where children and the old suffered and overweight Lords sit upon finery and pedestals as if it weren't simply luck of the draw that they were born to a certain name.

The conversation had occurred seemingly minutes ago, and the memory of it brought a smile to his face. Of course, she would always be his little lion, but that didn't make her namesake any less pleasant.

He watched Cersei's retreating form with a grim determination, "Elia, what do you think of the little lion?"

"Not much, I suppose, I haven't really spoken to her yet." Elia admitted, a lovely smile flitting at her lips. "Though she's awfully young, brother." She added mischievously.

* * *

Diamon didn't return home until dinner time, when her stomach growled for sustenance and she could no longer ignore the emptiness and the accompanying ache. That being said, she took a leisurely walk down the overgrown trails that took her from cliffside to civilisation, staining her lips red as she indulged in a mix of wild berries and edible flowers, wiping her hands carelessly on her dress and ignoring the twig that had tangled itself in her mess of hair. She figured she was already in trouble, and the childish whim to avoid a further telling off was overruled by her appetite and the urge to trample through the dirt bare footed.

She was wild, enjoying the brief tryst with freedom to her full capability, clothes damp from the caves she wriggled into and skin tanned by the overbearing sun.

The trails that spiralled and winded led back to the Rock, where all her troubles lay, and as she peered at it through the too bright sky a heavy feeling of dread, thick and stifling, overcame her.

Uncle Gerion was coming to visit soon, Diamon knew, she had heard her Father mention it in passing when she should have been tucked away in bed. She wanted to be out of trouble by the time he came to Casterly Rock, it was no fun when she was confined to her room or being the victim of Cersei's wrath- not when she could be laughing at her dear Uncle's jokes or hearing about his latest antics. So she steeled herself for the inevitable, ready to face her sister again after the incident in the nursery. She supposed Cersei would corner her after dinner, so there was that at least, because she'd get to fill her belly until her heart's content.

She squared her shoulders and let out a baited breath, mustering up all the courage she had in her thundering heart the way only children could do- because children were more prone to fright than adults, or at least that's how it seemed.

In her head she tried to conjure up the image of her Father being scared of anything, the great Tywin Lannister- _Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West and Hand of the King._ Albeit young and with a strong diversion to education and politics (lessons were long winded and boring, the words were too big and the contents meant nothing to a child more ensnared with treasure and exploration), Diamon found herself tagging on those titles at ease in the back of her mind, because her Lord Father was a man that inspired titles and the respect that came with them. _The Lion of Lannister, the Old Lion, the Great Lion of the Rock._

With her courage intact and her head held high, Diamon took her seat next to Jaime in the hall.

"There you are." He smiled, handsome and boyish, still wearing his leathers from the training yard though there was not a speck of dirt to be seen.

Diamon's eyes fluttered to his face, and then to that of his twin's, taking a moment to recognise the sharp glare and purse of lips that made a pretty girl age like those hags in the stories. The only time Cersei neared ugly was when she glowered like that, stewing in anger and spite wasn't a flattering look for her at all. Bashfully, she let her eyes fall to her goblet, chubby hands toying with the metal and dead set on ignoring everyone.

Their Lord Father wasn't in attendance, and it was a strange mix of relief and the distinct feeling of wrongness for feeling that way that plagued her. While understanding that she should not be grateful for his absence she simply couldn't help it, not when she knew his sharp eyes and stern face would look her up and down in disapproval over the table. It was hard to enjoy a meal and get her fill when he looked at her like that, it made her stomach churn and she couldn't swallow anything down when she felt such a way.

The lovely and strange foreigners, the boy she noticed especially, did not make an appearance. She didn't mind the mud eyed boy, she liked to think she enjoyed his company, and his sister seemed especially kind with her kind smile and kind eyes.

Jaime was speaking to her, she realised, and as she reached over the table to pick up an especially appetising slice of lemon cake- the yellow drizzle perfectly even and symmetrical- she felt a sharp kick to the leg of her chair.

Her little limbs were thrown out in panic, sprawling against the smoothed surface of the table in order to catch herself and regain some semblance of balance. She couldn't help that the food and the utensils were sent sprawling, that the cloth slipped and things were knocked away. She hadn't meant to spill the wine.

Cersei, whose smile had turned to ash, had been wearing a pretty dress in a shade of red Diamon had never seen before, a hue that was carefully dyed into the fabric and thread by an expert hand, and that pretty shade of red darkened with the seeping stain of Dornish wine in all its pigmented glory.

The Little Lion noticed the way her sister's face turned a similar shade that very moment, how her cheeks reddened with fury and her even redder lips curled up in a snarl as she let out a string of terrible words.

"Cersei, don't-" Jaime's careful voice called out, but it was too late.

Diamon let out a yelp as her sisters hands tangled themselves in her vast mane, whimpering as her sisters nails clawed at her scalp and tugged at her matted curls. Gods, it hurt, and she flailed wildly like an animal trying to get itself unstuck. Like one of the hunting dogs did when they tried to hunt moles in too small holes and couldn't get themselves out.

Cersei wretched her sister across the table, watching little limbs hit out against the surface and knowing rightly that they'd bruise and that she'd leave even more marks by the time she was through. She smiled, Diamon cried.

Long nails scratched against her skin, a thin fist striking her over and over, and her head went every which direction Cersei's arm went, a fist full of her hair making her bob and dance like the strings of a marionette.

Diamon was pummeled by her sister, thrown into the surface of the table she was pulled over only to be hit against the bench as she fell to the floor, cups and plates and knives and forks rained down on her as the table cloth finally slipped fully.

She tried to get up, to move away- but the cloth entangled her legs and ensnared her lithe limbs, her sister's grip on her hair pulled violently and she felt the world shift beneath her before she was air borne and then… pain. Her sharp teeth bit down on Cersei's hand, bony with no baby fat, and she clenched down on the skeletal appendage with all the might of a rabid animal, hearing her sister yowl in pain and shriek helplessly as her other hand unwrapped itself from Diamon's bronze shroud.

Free of her sister's hold and kicking violently at the pools of cloth that enveloped her, Diamon ran.

* * *

" _Though she's awfully young, brother."_

For some reason or another those words had repeated in his head throughout the day, spinning around his mind like those chains. Young, yes. Awfully so? No. She had escaped through the cracks, somehow made it this far without the poison seeping through her veins and ruining everything from the inside out.

Oberyn had a certain fascination with poison, and it seemed as if he was slowly gaining one for his little lion, too.

He sat in a room watching the adults play their little games with words and other meanings, utterly bored with the poorly concealed bickering and viciousness as his Mother and their gracious host went back and forth at a painstaking pace. It seemed as if adults never bored of their petty arguing and the ceaseless pull and tug. They were getting nowhere, that much was obvious to Oberyn, and yet they still carried on.

"No." Tywin always spoke with an air of finality, a harsh man in all aspects. "If you want a marriage then you can have Tyrion, of course you'll have to wait a few years- though it's not likely he'll grow much."

Lord Tywin Lannister was a jarring man, even in the gentle light that streamed from canopied windows of the softest fabric in the loveliest hues, hot shafts of golden sunlight illuminated his pale skin and impossibly blond hair as he sat at his table. He seemed more interested in the countless papers and the working of seals than he did in this conversation, half his face cast in the shadows of the room as his cold eyes worked tirelessly. Oberyn couldn't imagine a man like this smiling, nor could he picture Lord Tywin ever capable of love, despite what the handmaiden girls said of their late Lady Joanna.

It seemed impossible to him, that this man bore such a lovely thing from his loins. That the sweet child he spent hours with at the cliffsides came from this unsmiling man, not when her laughter was so sweet and genuine and her eyes alight with liveliness and excitement. The others, the twins- they made sense. Jaime with his impossible good looks and golden exterior, a warrior in the training yard and a man grown with a sword in his hand. He was too perfect not to come from a man like Tywin, molded carefully from a young age like a sword tempered in fire. And Cersei, with her sharp smile and sharper eyes, thinking awfully too much of herself because her Father was such a great and renowned man. But Diamon, the Little Lion, she wasn't gold and she wasn't lifeless.

His Mother had been modest enough to offer the prospect of Jaime and Elia, and Oberyn brooded in the corner, his mood only darkening worse as she mentioned a pairing between himself and Cersei too- perhaps both.

"What about the other one." Oberyn spoke, a lazy grin playing at his lips but his eyes as sharp as ever, "Diamon, I believe that was her name."

His Mother spared him a curious glance, she hadn't noticed his interest in the youngest Lannister girl, hadn't noticed him show any interest at all while being at Casterly Rock. It seemed as if he was resigned to sit in polite political conversation and spent his days reading books or entertaining his sister, his mood growing more dark and somber as the days pass by.

He looked handsome then, her sweet boy, sitting back on his chair at easy with his sly smile and careless attitude in the too bright light. Too smart for his own good, too volatile and unpredictable, and she supposed she hadn't been keeping enough of an eye on him during their stay in Westeros. Some children were simply more inclined to cause trouble than others, and Oberyn was most definitely one of them- and from what she had heard, the little lion cub, too.

If possible, Tywin's glare only grew harsher at the mention of his youngest daughter. He regarded Oberyn coolly, his eyes taking in the boy that dared ask for her hand, " _No."_

To Oberyn it was a surprising gesture, as this man's looming frame seemed to hold over him despite his sitting the other side of the room unmoving. It had been the most emotion this man had displayed in the week long visit, and Oberyn's smile grew just a tad bit more genuine.

The Lion of Casterly Rock had a soft spot for his cub after all. How interesting indeed.

* * *

Jaime's handsome face peered at her from the cascade of light leaking into the cavern, his golden hair alight in a halo-esque glow. He himself had crawled into that very same alcove as a child, but he had outgrown the tunnels in the walls years beforehand. It was an annoying situation in which words would triumph over action, where he couldn't simply reach out for her and take her in his arms. He had always been better with his sword than he had with his speech, but he knew he was the only one capable of comforting his little sister in that moment.

"Come out, Diamon." He coaxed her, gently. "She didn't mean it."

He knew it was a lie, knew that Cersei had meant every last bit of it right down to digging her claws into innocent skin. It made his stomach churn painfully, and doubts began to settle and linger in his mind. He remembered Cersei's reaction to their Mother's death, after she had caught them in the same bed, how her tears seemed fake and relief shone bright in those grief stricken orbs. He blinked, and the image was gone, Diamon was at the entrance now, gazing up at him balefully.

Diamon had a bloody lip and scratch marks near her eyes, a dusting of black framing pretty green orbs. Her chest, smooth and flat, had bloody scratch marks trailing from her collar to her last rib, the tender skin inflamed and red and raw.

He didn't like seeing his sister's fight. Not when he loved them both so, not when Diamon peered up at him like he was the greatest thing she'd ever seen, or when Cercei's eyes softened when she spotted him in the halls; they were his, his to protect and his to love. His other half and his shadow.

Jaime held her to his chest, feeling the way her head found its way to his shoulder and the tears that sodded his under shirt. The dampness of the material would serve as a reminder late into the night, of his little sister's tears and her pain. Pain that Cersei had inflicted. His arms wrapped tighter around her, and he was angry the way brothers so often were at the sight of their sisters tears.

He carried her to his chambers, gently bobbing her in his arms in a soothing manner. She liked to be carried by him, he knew, and she liked to hold his hand for comfort when the other children were playing. It wasn't unusual for her to find her way to the training yard so she could watch him, she'd scowl when another boy would manage to hit him and clap gleefully when he sent someone to the ground. In many ways she was his biggest supporter in life.

Jaime took her dress off, easing the fabric away from her marred skin with a mindfulness and gentleness that didn't become a boy in the playing yard with a sword in hand. He was strong, a child still but with a skill his Father told him was beyond his years, and somehow he could still muster up the carefulness of a child comforting another.

Diamon mewled as the linen of her dress brushed against her chest, fresh tears spilling from her guileless eyes, framing her bruised face and the redness of blood.

His eyes raked across her half dressed body frantically, taking in the marks that ran deeper than scratches and the ugliness of bruises against pale skin. Calloused palms struggled to find the softest material he could get his hands on, looking through silken shirts he'd wear to train in the hot weather- He found a white shirt with long sleeves and gentle bunches that fit his lean frame, and he dropped it over her head and chuckled warmly at the way it pooled around her slight shape. Nimble fingers clumsily folded the sleeves so that her fingers poked out the ends, so used to working a blade against a wet stone but uninclined to the softness of fabric and the way it spilled.

That night he held Diamon beneath the warm covers of his bedchamber, brushing her hair idly as her breath came out in even strokes and her warmth leaked into his skin.

"Jaime?" A soft, lovely voice called out, muffled slightly. "Jaime, are you awake?"

Cersei had knocked on the door. Once, twice, thrice- but Jaime would not let her in, would not speak as she called for him. He felt sick when he heard her gentle tones, the way she said his name with such love and devotion- that's what he heard at least. The girl in his arms, the one he wanted to shield from the world and keep her smile intact, served as a reminder. He fell asleep that night holding his baby sister, and he didn't hear Cersei come to the door again or the way she finally stomped away and slammed her own, instead he held onto Diamon tighter, and they slept without further discern.

* * *

Oberyn found himself that morning with a skip in his step as he glided across the sunstained stone of the courtyard, and the notion that Casterly Rock was somehow more golden than the rest didn't bother him a bit. It had been decided last night, after Lord Tywin Lannister made his disposition clear, that they would take their long awaited leave the next day, and no one was to wed either of the Lannister spawn.

Elia didn't seem to mind as she and the handmaidens folded cloth into chests and she took one last trip to Lannisport to see all the market stalls, and he wondered if she had been just as eager as him to leave all along. It wouldn't surprise him, she was sharper than most, and the things they'd seen during their stay should have been enough to dissuade her from wanting to marry the boy- Jaime.

He had seen the golden lion just the other day, it had been a short exchange consisting of asking about the little lion's whereabouts. Oberyn hadn't mentioned the cliffside or the birds, it felt like a secret of sorts, and a part of him didn't want to give it away so easily. It would feel wrong to speak of it aloud. Jaime had let it slip that he hadn't seen his youngest sister since the incident at the nursery that night, that he'd looked in all her favourite hiding places and still hadn't seen hide nor tail of her. Oberyn had seen him chide his twin for lashing out at her, yet an hour later he was begging for her forgiveness, still not being able to find the little lion anywhere.

Oberyn had hid his smile as he saw Cersei walk past, stifling his mirth at the sight of the mark on her cheek. Even Elia found it amusing.

He spotted his little lion sitting on that same windowsill he had found her on just a few days prior. No one had seen her for days on end until last night, that's what he had heard from the handmaiden girls and the kitchen workers, and he found himself shocked when he spotted all the bruises along her arms and the blood that leaked from her lips. His amusement at Cersei's violent red mark was short lived, for it faded altogether when he saw how she repaid her little sister in kind.

Hot red anger burned in his stomach, and he hated the lions and their spiteful claws.

He noticed she still had hold of those necklaces she always held, the ones she used to throw at Cersei. If nothing else then at least he could smile at that.

"We're leaving today, little lion." He called out.

She didn't respond, and he didn't mind much. He understood better than anyone the need for quiet, especially after being bested. So he resigned himself to let her stew, he wouldn't force awkward conversation or be left babbling to himself when she wanted naught but to be alone.

He barely made it four steps when he felt someone tug at his tunic, and before he had a chance to say anything something had been shoved into his hands. The cool gold chain contrasted with warm skin, and he smiled fondly at the marred face of the sun. When he looked up she was already gone, and he stood alone in the hall with a dumb smile on his face.

* * *

 _ **(AN: Euron Greyjoy is the love of my life. Season 7's only downfall was that he wasn't in it enough. No spoilers though.**_

 _ **I don't like this chapter, I've spent so long editing and messing around with it that I'm at a loss as to how to fix it. The next chapter will be better, at least.**_

 _ **Answering question(s) in the reviews:**_

 _ **Diamon was inspired by the name Daemon in the GOT world, but 1. It's masculine & 2\. It's Targaryen (other characters had the name but there's a clear line between Lannister and Targaryen names js). It's also a mix of Damon and Diamond, I made it up entirely but it kinda ties in later on in an unrelated way?**_

 _ **Thank you for all the reviews, follows and favourites, it's been interesting to see what people perceive and predict concerning Diamon's character and her place in the series.**_

 _ **While the story at this very moment is taking place pre GOT (series, books, whatever) there will be a wide range of characters introduced and interacting, which means people dead before the series could make an appearance and those old enough to be alive all have a chance of popping up! I love the books and the history of the houses so that's really the motive behind this story other than giving Oberyn, Euron & Jaime some love (romantic or familial depending on the character).**_

 _ **ALSO: Don't leave reviews in my other fics telling me to update LL, it's not the place to do so. The only place people should be demanding things referring to this fic is literally in the reviews of this fic and this fic only. If I'm getting reviews on other fics about it again I'll just discontinue it, there's a time and a place for everything and that isn't it.)**_


	3. Chapter Three, The Tourney

**The Laughing Lion | Chapter Three, The Tourney**

Then took each other by the hand,  
And danced a stately saraband;  
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.

 _Oscar Wilde's; 'The Harlot's House'_

* * *

Diamon hid behind pillars and wormed her way into the deepest and ever winding cracks in the walls of her home, where strangers steps rang hollow and bodies of armour clanged. Barefoot and hair fierce in its entangled shroud, she peered around the corners and the from the shadows with wide eyes, where the Dragon was kept.

He had long white hair, once silver and long gone colorless in its age, and a wave of a beard that moved as he walked like the flames from the creatures mouth; its colour the same as smoke as it rises through winters air. It was the eyes- horribly and violently violet like an ugly bruise against pallor skin- that scared her the most. Its eyes and the way all the cuts on his body shone a fiery red.

Sometimes, when the adults were speaking, and the only comfort bar the dusk of shadows was her Father's tall and looming frame, she felt like he was looking right at her.

It was impossible, of course, because no one could see in the pitch black crevasse of even the sunniest of rooms, but somehow when those indigo eyes stopped a little too long on the spot she occupied she didn't feel as if it were such an inconceivable act in the first place.

She was used to strangers, now. They flocked the halls of her home and came in and out of their lives like the platters the cooks brought in and out during dinner time. She didn't so much remember the boy with the brown eyes and his queer accent as much as she had a vague idea in her mind as to what happened during his visit. Thoughts like that which unravelled in her mind and made her clutch on to the pendant suspended on a shave of gold in a quiet and incomprehensible consideration, a kind ill befitting of a little girl in expensive rags.

It was when he paused mid step, her Lord Father never faltering and still speaking in his stern and icy tones, that she found herself terrified. He swivelled his head, neck strained from a heavy crown inherit through the ages and held on to for far too long, and it was a jerk of a maneuver that made him seem more animal than human. Red skin framed eyes that seemed to glow despite the absence of light, his eye whites more yellow than ivory, rubbed raw and stained by sleepless nights and darkened thoughts. Never again would she see such a shade of indigo so deep and rich without feeling the damp and dangerous clutch of fear racing like a jackrabbit in her chest.

Diamon gripped herself to the wall, hugging onto jagged stone that cut her, it felt wet and cold against her skin where the rest of her home was lukewarm to the touch. Blood pissed from an open wound, slick like oil and almost black from where she stood.

The Dragon smiled then, and impossible or not she knew he had seen.

Her Lord Father's footsteps held steady, joined suddenly by the Dragon's dragging feet, a horrible scraping sound like talon's against salt stained stone by the cove. She could have sworn his feet were barely touching the ground, hovering and brushing against the stone like he was in flight; and as he passed by pillars of sunlight and gold she could see the shadow of leathery wings beating against the air.

When they turned yet another corner she ran, her own footsteps silent.

* * *

"Run, Diamon!" The girl, Myra, cried out with her face flushed in excitement.

Diamon liked the baker's daughter, who always smelled like warm bread and spice that lingered in the air. She had blonde hair, not like Jaime and Cersei's, it was a softer colour, warmer somehow, and lovely brown eyes that were always malleable. She had her hair in little braids tied with twine in a bow, and she wore a pretty blue dress that was slightly too big for her that she got new specially for the event. Myra was a soft child, an excitable one, too. She looked at Diamon the way Diamon looked at Jaime, like everything was brand new, and to someone who loved fanciful tales and discovering unexplored territory it was the best kind of company to keep.

They were the same age, but listening to them talk you wouldn't have thought so. Myra had a tendency to hang on to every word the little Lannister mustered, and perhaps it had to do with the fact that she was a lion of Lannister or maybe it was just how good of a storyteller Diamon turned out to be. She spent so much of her time reading nowadays, and Myra was genuinely interested in all those stories and histories that she herself had no way of learning. Diamon retold tales and facts off the top of her head at ease, and she would sit there with an eerie patience ill befitting of a child and answer each and every question with a thoughtfulness and carefulness that made her seem more grown up somehow.

When people pointed it out Diamon would ponder as to where she got it from, and she thought it stemmed from the way she herself liked to listen to her father talk.

They were running through the marketplace, and Diamon had never seen so much colour in the streets of Lannisport, with buntin lining the sky from the buildings to the markets and launturns strewn across the pathways hanging from shops and market stalls. There were streamers in every colour imaginable, all blowing in the sea front wind like the waves crashing against the shores. Her bare feet thumped against the smooth stone of winding lanes, preoccupied by fistfulls of her skirt to avoid the fraying and threadbare ends brushing against the ground.

She didn't have a new dress on like Myra did, but hers still fit in all the right places and the fabric was soft to the touch. She had known that she would sneak out this morning, so she didn't bother getting ready for the Tourney, she'd get dressed properly later on with Cersei while the handmaiden's gossiped and her Septa fretted over the tangled mess of her hair.

Myra's brothers were chasing them, she had several of them. Earlier on they had made fun of Baron, the eldest, because his voice cracked mid conversation and he made this strange squeaking sound trying to clear his throat. For some reason it made them crack up, but Diamon had always loved to laugh and Myra simply seemed to find joy in every little thing she came across, so Diamon had come out with some witty comment, their earlier conversation forgotten in favor of teasing. Baron and the other boys had began chasing them, and the stable boy had joined in, because he liked walking Diamon into town to see her friends, and he liked chasing her down the streets even more. He was a little too old to be playing with the girls, maybe, but with the baker's sons it didn't seem so strange at all to be joining in.

The merchants called out in melody, the sing song voices chorusing in a chaotic harmony of merchandise and price listings. People of Lannisport, native and visiting, scurrying from stall to stall, chattering as the children played and took chase precariously, paying no mind to the wagons on the street and the horses that whinnied at the noise. Diamon didn't pay much mind to the offerings of food and the colourful dyes, ignoring the fabrics and herbs and spices on display. She scoffed at the luxury jewels on show in the higher end stalls, the only thing that glittered and glowed worth much of anything in her mind was the treasure hidden in caves and rock pools by the cliffside.

She skipped and dodged and dogged her way past the bustle of people that travelled in hordes, and the other children let loose laughter and cheerful yells. Myra grabbed her arm, tugging in desperation, and Diamon dissolved into laughter as the boys on their heels got held up by a bitter merchant. Some of the old people that watched the parades of people in festives from their stoops could appreciate the sound of her mirth and the sight of happy go lucky children running amok, it was a sign of the long wearing summer that seemed neverending. In places like Lannisport the winter never seemed near, like they would somehow be untouched by it's cold and clammy grips for the sun never stopped shining.

They wore crowns of their own for the King's Tourney, made of flowers from the fields near the rivers they played in on especially sunny days. With hands intertwined they tugged and pulled at each other, leading and goading to the budding crowd awaiting the presence of their Lord and crown King. Myra wore a happy flush to her cheeks, she'd been especially besotted with the idea of wearing flower chain crowns, and she dreamed of crown princes and the kinds of dresses only a princess would wear.

Diamon had leaves tangled in her hair, her flower crown had fused with the coiled mess of a mane she had and become one. Her Septa would be furious with her, if only Cersei wouldn't find her first in her excitement to get ready.

"Come on, Myra, this way." She told her with a toothy grin, taking her friends hand as the pair slipped down an alleyway hidden by stalls and a babble of women talking.

"Where are we?" Myra whined, never liking the fact that Diamon simply knew more than here by ways of shortcuts. Diamon tended to know more than her about everything, and that's why she always ended up in the lead; she was faster, taller and smarter, like a little Lady should be.

It was a natural curiosity that burned the youngest Lannister, a need to explore every last bit of the streets and rooftops of her home, one that girls like Myra would never understand.

"It's a shortcut, I promise." She informed the girl merrily, "This will get us to the square quicker, before the boys catch us."

She didn't want to get caught, even though that had been the initial point of it all, not yet at least. It was one of those things children could appreciate, the build up to the climax, the players suspended there as everything stilled. Games like this were too fun to end so soon.

With that in mind she slowed her pace, and Myra followed her every move without question. The alleyway was barren for the most part, a crate here and there and an empty bottle or two the exception, and it led to a stairway which would take them to where the viewing stands had been prepared.

Myra's brothers and the stable boy were her favourite playmates, they were boisterous children that liked all kinds of games. Chase was particularly a favourite pastime, especially when Diamon could so easily initiate the beginnings with a few words. She was good at getting people to do what she wanted, not realising she was manipulating people into getting her way, and it was a tool she used so very differently than the likes of her sister.

She paused in her step, her back against the wall as she took one last calm breath, and with a nod to her partner in crime she spun away from the wall and entered the crowds streaming down the streets.

Everyone was staring up at the balcony, where Diamon was sure to be seated later that day. None of the Knights in the first rounds would make it to the finals, she knew, it was simply to warm up the crowd and establish a fitting atmosphere. It was later on, when the jugglers and the bards had gone and everyone had consumed their fair share of ale that the better Knights would make themselves known.

Diamon didn't so much care about the famous names as she did the familiar ones. Her Uncles Gerion and Tygett would be contending, and she felt her chest swell with hope when she thought about them in their armour sitting atop steeds. She loved watching them, Tygett with his brute strength and Gerion with his lithe limbs. It was like a dance, one that took her breath away.

"Look- Look over there! Is that the Prince, Diamon?" Myra asked excitedly, tugging on the girls skirts. "Is it really Rhaegar?"

"Yes." She told her, absently, sparing a glance at the figure in the stands concealed by shadows. "I heard him play his harp yesterday evening from the cliffside, he's very good. I've been told he's a great Knight, too, but I can't imagine anyone being better with a sword than Jaime, except maybe Ser Arthur Dayne."

"He's handsome, isn't he? I think he's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I've heard the Sword of the Morning is rather handsome, too." Myra admitted, bashful.

Diamon frowned, squinting into the sun where Rhaegar's vague figure stood tall and proud. She didn't see him the same way the baker's daughter did, he in no way compared to the treasure she had found in the coves, but she supposed he _was_ handsome with his silver hair and indigo eyes. She preferred brown eyes herself, and she didn't see why it mattered if Ser Dayne was beautiful or not, it didn't change his talent with a sword.

"Will you get to meet the Prince, Diamon?"

"I don't know, I don't think I really want to. My Uncles are in the Tourney and I hope they win. Uncle Gerion's been making jests about the feast he'll hold when he wins all day, I hope my Lord Father lets me place a bet."

"I hope Prince Rhaegar wins." Myra told her, "Imagine, Diamon, if he crowns one of us the Queen of Love and Beauty!"

"I should hope not." Diamon snorted, thinking of the horrible ways in which Cersei would hurt her and smirking at her friend's fanciful thoughts. "I'd much rather see Gerion dance around the viewing stands when he won, he does a rather lovely gig when the occasion calls for it."

Myra giggled, "Will he dance anyway, do you think?"

"If he drinks enough ale anything could happen!"

"There you are!" Baron complained loudly, "Myra, we have to get home."

"But the Tourney is just starting!" She whined.

"Father's waiting." He told her sternly, "We'll find seats later, none of these Knights will make it very far besides."

"That's the truth of it, Myra." Diamon agreed at ease, "Run on home, you won't miss your beloved Prince, he won't ride until later."

"Oh, fine." She sulked, "We never get to have any fun, anyway."

Diamon rolled her eyes good heartedly, "That's not true, and I'll see you sometime soon, maybe. Enjoy the tourney."

"Say hello to all the pretty Knight's for me, won't you? Oh, please say you will!"

"Of course I will."

She stayed in the crowd, watching her friends as they traipsed away towards the main streets to the bakery. The stable boy followed a little behind her, but she didn't pay him much mind, she eased into the front of the crowd like she was melting, and he struggled to stay close.

Old men tip their caps her direction, and the blacksmiths smiled at her fondly. She said hello to the dress maker whom she'd be seeing much later on if she had her way, and hugged one of the young girls that had given her honey for a present the nameday last. These people knew Diamon, and she knew them, in fact, she'd go as far to say she liked them.

A family called their greetings to her, the father had caught her scrambling from rooftop to rooftop once and he'd become quite fond of her. She had given his daughters reams of lovely ribbons the shade of burning umber and clear skies before rain, for their nameday.

She had joined the baker's daughter and her brother's after being chased from her home by shadows of Dragon's and the gold armour of their companions. It wasn't something she could speak of or easily convey.

Diamon swam in a sea of commoners, a blotch of red and gold in a pool of browns and greys, fine silk among rough wool and beaten leather. She had cheered with the people of Lannisport for King Aerys II who looked more man than Dragon in the fair light, twice as loud for her Lord Father, one voice bleeding into the next as the small folk's cheers echoed off Casterly Rock like thunder. But it was when Rhaegar appeared that her voice died in her throat, and with hitched breath and wide eyes she stared back into the King's beady gaze. Somehow he had spotted her in the crowd, somehow his eyes had managed to find hers, and somehow she could not move as he grinned his lecherous grin.

It was at that moment that Diamon understood why so many feared the Dragons.

* * *

Diamon held Tyrion by his twisted and swollen limbs, holding most of his weight as he tried to walk. It was her favourite game, even better than playing with the baker's daughter and her brothers. She liked seeing his little smile and the happy babbling and gurgles as he giggled and clapped. He wasn't very big, but it hurt him to walk most of the time, and a part of her felt like he was missing out. She had been able to walk, and though she couldn't remember it she assumed she'd enjoyed it, so she wanted Tyrion to be able to experience the same thing. When she told Jaime he'd grinned down at her, putting away his practice sword and working at loosening his breeches so he could freshen up.

"That sounds like a good idea, Dai." He'd told her, "Be careful though."

She was careful, because Tyrion wasn't a normal babe, and she let her hands fall to his torso so that he wasn't suspended by his arms for long, she knew it would hurt him after a while. No one else would have listened to her idea to help Tyrion enjoy these simple luxuries in life, they would have paid no mind to a little girl and her dwarf of a brother, but Jaime did, and it made her love her brother even more so than before if that were possible. She adored her brothers more than treasure even.

"You know, your sister's been searching for you." Uncle Tygett called from the doorway suddenly.

He was a tall man, like her Lord Father, but he was broader still with thick and unruly muscle. She often thought he frowned too much, her Uncle Tyg, but he was kind to her and liked to tell her old stories from his childhood and centuries before. Sometimes, when the only light came from the moon if it was feeling generous or the candlelight that leaked through the crack beneath the door and stone, she heard him arguing with her Father. His voice was prone to raising as his temper got the better of him, but her Father's never elevated, not even a bit. Her Father didn't need to shout to inflict fear, she thought then, and she supposed neither did Tygett's, for he could be as fearsome as the best of them. Still, he never raised his voice at her, he wouldn't lift his hand either, and she thought all the more better of him for it.

Diamon carefully cradled her brother to her chest, struggling a little with his weight but managing all the same. "She wants to stuff me in some silly dress and listen to the bard's sing love songs. Tyrion's much more bearable."

"I used to think that of Gerion, and then he learned to speak with that quick tongue of his."

Somehow it amazed her that Tygett could be so angry at the world, but then she saw things that made something hot coil in the pit of her stomach too, and she forgave his sore words and temperate nature with a childlike acceptance. It was strange, the way in which he resented his brothers, the both of them. Diamon loved hers, she would be content to live in Jaime's shadow forever if it meant she could stand by his side, the smiles he paid to her were worth more than gold, and Tyrion, just a babe, managed to discipline and shape her wicked ways into something softer and more malleable.

She laughed, a pretty sound, and the babe in her arms mewled happily, not quite about to achieve full laugher but expressing his high spirits all the same. Perhaps, if he understood his predicament, the fact that he was a Dwarf and half orphaned, he wouldn't have been able to muster even that. "If he's anything like Gerion I shall love him all the more, but I think he'll be a true intellect, Uncle."

"Even worse. They talk more than they know, child."

"Do you like anyone, I wonder?" She mused aloud, and it was an honest question, though you wouldn't know it from her wolfish smile.

"I enjoy your company." He told her, arms crossed and standing upright. It wasn't hard for Lannister men to tower over her, she was tall but a child still, as all lions stood a great height apart from the one in her arms. "Sometimes, at least."

"I don't see how Uncle Gerion can say you're miserable, you're a sunny man if you ask me."

Uncle Tygett, with his short temper and even shorter patience at the best of times, straightened even more. "Enough idle chatter, girl, go find your sister before she tears her hair out."

Diamon sighed, but she placed Tyrion in the crib carefully all the same. On her way out and passing her Uncle, she paused, but didn't wish to linger in case that angered him too.

"Good luck in the Tourney, Uncle, I shall be cheering for you." She told him honestly, eyes shining in anticipation and excitement.

She had ran out of the room before she could see the hint of a smile that played at his lips, or the way his chest puffed out the way men so often did when pride overcame them. Anger and resentment aside, Tygett fought like no other, and he loved the song of swords more than any ballad the bard's could levy. He was also fond of his niece, despite thinking she took a little too much after that bastard Gerion and his damned jokes. Always laughing, those two, at the world and everyone in it, but he liked to think that Diamon was laughing with him, the smart child that she was.

Diamon listened to her Uncle's, but she hadn't promised she'd find Cersei and she hadn't inquired as to her whereabouts, so despite knowing her sister wouldn't be in the practice yard she went there all the same.

She found Jaime easily, and she took a moment to watch him. He stood tall and blond, handsome in the sunlight with his sword strapped to his side and his leathers hanging loosely and untied. He was watching cupbearers and wards run about, holding out shields and armours and swords for their respective Lord's and fetching whetstones and wine at the wave of a hand. She saw her brother eyeing the knights and equipment with a pure and unadulterated _want_ in his eyes, a _need_ to stand among them and become one more so.

"Jaime!" She called for him, and his emerald eyes flickered to meet her own as a lazy smile grew.

"There you are, sweet sister, people have been looking for you all morning." He sounded amused, and as she took her rightful place beside him he ruffled her curls.

"I know, Uncle Tyg told me as much." She admitted, "Have you seen the Sword of the Morning, yet, Jaime? Was his sword as impressive as the stories say?"

She liked the stories about lightbringer, they said it was made of a shooting star or a comet.

"Not yet." He shrugged, "There's a few men here worth naming, that's certain, but for the most part the best will be saved for last."

"All the more pity." She huffed, resting her cheek on her hand as she watched a particularly fat ward struggle with the weight of his Lord's longsword. "I wish I could fight in the Tourney. I wish I could fight at all. Swords seem so much sweeter than a fat Lord and suckling babe's."

Jaime laughed, "You're right, but you can't fight, and perhaps your Lord husband won't be fat."

Cersei never laughed at her for wanting to fight or wield a sword, and Diamon thought more of her for it. Sometimes, when it was late and they indulged in stolen wine from the dining halls, her sister would speak more freely. She'd indulge Diamon with hidden wants and dreams, of weilding a sword and carrying Father's legacy. Cersei believed that Jamie didn't listen to their Lord Father, didn't take heed of his words and teachings like he should, and she thought it was a waste; a shame. She fancied herself the true heir, or at least she had before thoughts of becoming Queen had entered her pretty little head.

"Maybe not in the beginning, but further down the line…" She trailed off fretfully, "I think I'd kill him in his sleep, Jaime, I couldn't bare it. I'd cave his head in when he got up during the night to piss in the chamberpot, I'd have no choice in the matter, sincerely. What if his sons turn out to be as unbearable as him?"

He watched her strangely, and let out a bark of a laugh when she was done. "Where do you come up with such things, I wonder? I'm sure Father will find someone passable, someone you won't kill at night at least."

"All men are unbearable, except for you and our Uncle's and Father. Tyrion, one day, too." Diamon spoke knowingly, "They will hate me as much as I hate them, I promise you, and maybe they'll kill me first if they get the chance, if they've got any brains in their head they would."

She imagined a fat Lord toppling down the stairs, his pisspot tinkering down after him. That was a fate she hadn't exactly resigned herself to as of yet, but its impending reality was beginning to sink in with each day passing and Cersei and Aunt Genna's talk of marriage on the horizon.

"Gods be good, Diamon!" Jaime swore, "Enough about marriage, are you trying to blacken my mood? I won't hear another word of it, no man shall raise his hand to you, I swear it."

"Don't swear, not for me." She smiled softly then, "I wish I was a boy, like you. We could spar together and I'd be content, that's all I truly want."

"I'll swear it alright, I'd cut him a smile from neck to ear. And you'd be just as miserable with a wife, don't you know?" He spoke willfully, a streak of hot-bloodedness running through him.

Diamon liked that he was so hot blooded about things, while Cersei remained cold to look at and cool to the touch. They were fire and ice, the Lannister twins, and she never wanted them to change.

"True, but it's different for men, you know it is."

Jaime frowned, heaving a hefty sigh, and his hand felt heavy on her shoulder. "What's brought all this on?"

Diamon frowned then, "There's been talk of betrothal, it seems Father may see fit to marry me off to one of Lord Darry's lot. They're a powerful house, and I don't think Father will say no if it comes up."

Jaime scowled, "You're young, still, Diamon. You won't marry anytime soon."

"Still, long betrothal's aren't that odd, are they?" She frowned, "The riverlands are far away."

"Not as far as the North or the Wall."

"But it's not here, Jaime. That's all that matters in the end, and those Darry's aren't you or Cersei or- or Father! They're not _us._ I want to stay a Lannister, a lion, claws and all."

"I know, Dai." He told her, sadly, and he wrapped an arm around her waist. "I know."

They watched on, somber, and neither of them had the heart to move just yet. It seemed as if their childhood was fleeting at best, then. Like they'd aged overnight with no warning, and they were reluctant to give it all up.

"What's going on here?" A lilted voice called from behind, "It can't possibly be my dear niece and nephew that look so glum on a day like today!"

* * *

 _ **(AN: Cliffhanger. Anyway, this is the morning of the Tourney held at Lannisport celebrating the birth of Prince Viserys, the next chapter(s) will be the events leading up and the actual Tourney itself. I'm actually trying to figure out how to write a Tourney without it becoming tedious, so hopefully you all won't hate what I come up with heh.)**_


	4. Chapter Four, The Tourney pt II

It was Uncle Gerion's voice, she knew, and as she peered over her shoulder his lithe frame came into view. He was a tall, lean man, with not an ounce of fat to him but plenty of muscle built so very differently than Tygett's, and was so very quick on his feet. While his brother's exuded brute force and an immovable front he bore a sly strength and unbreakable wit, never standing still or one to take things lying down; his was a fight that left him without a mark and his opponent ran through with holes. He had blond curly hair that was beautiful to look at, long and luscious locks the colour of feathered gold, and his smiling eyes were wily and full of mirth.

"Well, if it isn't the Laughing Lion!" Gerion greeted, ever so cheerful. Her uncle was a reckless man, one that laughed and smiled and jeered at everything there was to life, she often thought that he'd even laugh in the face of the gods if he could. So very different to her Lord Father and dear Uncle Tygett.

"Gerion!" She grinned, "Are you ready for the Tourney this afternoon?"

"Aye." He nodded, "You should keep an eye out, Jaime, you might pick up on a thing or two."

Jaime grinned broadly, and to her he looked a man grown. "Perhaps, Uncle. I wish I could fight now, though."

"It'd be a sight to see, a boy against men- I suppose you'd knock a few fools on their arse, perhaps an able-bodied man or two even more so. I'd pay to see it." He confided flippantly with a laugh, his eyes solely on Diamon. "Now, I hear a Lady is hiding from her sister and the dressmaker, hm?"

"They stuff me in cages and prick me with pointed needles." She huffed, "I'd stick a needle in the hags old eye, it wouldn't affect her choice of colour much."

He dissolved into a spirited bout of laughter, and like a lion he roared with it; the same way her father did when he made a command or Tyg did with his shout. All the Lannister men were lions, proud creatures with calloused paws as blood stained as any, and the women with their sharp claws and vicious teeth.

Jaime snorted good naturedly, shaking his head at the pair of them. "I'm going to go see if I can catch sight of some of the good knights. The ones worth seeing."

"Farewell, nephew. Careful not to step on anyone's tail, now, it has to be said that not all men are our friends." Gerion warned him, still smiling- always smiling. "Though I shan't ever know why, what with our dashing looks, sparking personalities and positively _golden_ humour!"

They were laughing again, with Diamon leaning against her Uncle's legs and him bent forward, an arm wrapped around her neck in a show of camradary and affection. Jaime thought them one and the same, cut from the same cloth, and everybit of humour his father, Uncle Tygett, and Cersei were missing had gone to them, the laughing lion's of Lannister. It was clear to him, as he walked away, their mirth still ringing softly in his ears, that they understood something everything around them did not; and while he thought himself in good humour, a part of him craved to be privy to the joke.

"He's a good lad, our Jaime, isn't he?" Her dearest Uncle wondered aloud, his long and elegant fingers brushing the hair from her neck tenderly, "The gods have gifted him, surely, as they have gifted us in the art of hilarity."

Diamon sighed in contentedness, melting into his hold. "I wish I was a boy."

"You sure look like one." Gerion teased, flicking her ear as she tried her damnedness to swat him away, "With your pretty curls and that height!"

"I'll bite your bloody finger off!" She warned him, trying her hardest not to laugh, and struggling all the more when she felt his hands snake around her to reach her ribs- the place that tickled the most.

"Oh! _Will_ you now? I'd _love_ to see you try- Roar, little lion, roar!" He jeered with a mockingly sing-song voice, his nimble fingers prodding and teasing her slender figure in a way that made her scream with laughter.

She wriggled and thrashed and tried to worm her way out of his hold, tears streaming from her eyes and burning hotly as she threw her head back and doubled over in childish delight. Her belly ached and her chest constricted all tight and breathless, and she kicked at her skirts and she felt his fingers dance and dart in a merry jig that sent her reeling. It would be times like this that she would look back on most fondly through adulthood, the time she spent with her Uncle who she loved more than the moon and the stars that adorned the night sky and all the trinkets and treasure in the world. Gerion's bleach blonde mane, more a mass of white gold than the mess of bronze gold she herself wore, feathered against her face as he leaned over her so that there was no escape. As she whipped her head back and forth in her tussle, preoccupied by a fit of the giggles, she caught sight of his own splendid face and his hazel eyes screwed up in joy. He didn't have emerald eyes like the others, the same way her hair wasn't quite blonde, and it set them apart.

Eventually he stopped, and she collapsed in a pile of dress folds and her own heaving chest, gasping for air only for it to be knocked straight out of her when he decided to land partly on her- still mindful to hold near all his own weight with his capable arms so as not to hurt her.

"You're mad!" She swore, breathless with flushed cheeks and the greenest eyes that shone in the sunlight.

He cackled, nudging her nose with his own before snorting, just as breathless and joyous as her, the two of them always happy to butt heads. "In a world like ours it's better to be mad, Day. Madness is a sign of intelligence, and laughter is the best medicine for the sane."

She pushed his head away from her own with a little hand, grazing his temple, fully awake that he allowed her to do it as he fell beside her dramatically. His breath had tickled her cheek, along with the little bit of stubble he had neglected to rid himself of from the night, too.

"Will you dance with me at the feast tonight?" She asked of him, regaining her breath and smiling with a childish peace, tranquility and the sun warming to her as the light bathed them like gods.

He glanced at her, the green and the brown of his orbs dancing, shifting in fluid motions in a way that seemed striking against his tanned, sunkissed skin. "Always."

No one noticed the pair of them there, shielded by the fences and the busyness of the Tourney's beginning, and it was just the two of them and the startled birds.

"Will you give me your token for the Tourney, Day?" Gerion asked of her suddenly, grinning, "You will be my dance partner, after all."

She grinned, "Always."

Spotting a stray songbird, the kind that rarely strayed from the cliff's she loved, she sighed. "I wish I could live on the cliff's, with a big hut with enough room at the table for all the family, and you could come visit me every day."

"What is the greatest treasure in the world, Diamon, the one you seek from your craggy caves and impossible spaces, hmm?" Gerion implored of her in a whispered singsong voice, smiling gently and not at all amused, just fond and affectionate.

She leaned up to him, placing her mouth by his ear, and with a fist full of his golden curls she told him, "Brightroar."

His eyes lit up in joy, molten liquid dancing gleefully and he let out a little tinkering laugh, his arms wrapping tighter around her as he bounced her in his lap. "You certainly do have an eye for treasure, deary."

In years to come Diamon would remember this interaction for the first time, and she would remember the sudden switch in Gerion's personality. His eyes never went still again, always dancing with a curiosity and purpose that no one else knew of, the same glint that Diamon's eyes possessed.

Gerion knew that Diamon wanted to find Brightroar more than anything in the world, that it was her ultimate treasure, and he poured over books and charts until he had exhausted himself of all options.

One thing that struck him that day, in an odd bout of seriousness, was that he'd find his niece's treasure for her. He'd return one day, with Brightroar in hand, and he'd gift it to her in front of the entire seven kingdom's- because Gerion loved his niece, and he wanted to do all in his power to grant her her treasure.

They stayed that way for a while, nudging each other and dissolving into laughter, but mostly content to just stay there and smile and let the silence do the talking. Diamon didn't want it to ever end, she could have stayed like that forever- and she would have, if it weren't for catching a glimpse of Tygett's impressive figure as he stormed across the play yard, looking thunderous with his purposeful, heavy strides. It was only by luck and luck alone that he didn't spot them, what with them in a laying in a heap on the dirt.

As he turned the corner Diamon scrambled up into a hasty crouch, grabbing onto her dear Uncle's hand, and she knew he had spotted Tyg too.

"We have to hide!" She hissed, tugging with all her might, and Gerion stumbled comically behind her- half due to his theatrics and a little bit because of his painfully hunched figure- Gods he was tall! He was a dangerously agile man, though, and with a dexterity and grace that no man should have the right to possess he danced behind her all lightsome and limber, a comical expression lighting up his features.

"You're right, I always said that Tyg was as ugly as a monster's backside!" He announced, watching her try her hardest and fail to stifle her giggles, "Quick, my fair maiden, before he catches sight and comes to eat us!"

With a playful growl he pounced, catching her by the middle and swinging her high into the air, her surprised shriek giving way to desperate sniggers and the two bounded behind the stables just as Tygett spun around. He could have sworn he heard Diamon just then-

Together they ran, and no one was as good at playing games as they were. Nothing could compare to them and the time they played as the Tourney went on all around them, living under the pretense that responsibility had been lifted- and in that moment it was, and they were free as the birds nesting in the highest branches of the trees. No games of chase with Myra or teasing with the stable boy could compare, and Diamon's true laughter was reserved only for her family and those she held dearest.

Unable to wait, as whims took control and they fell helplessly into a blur of theatrics and antics that made them shine brighter than the rest- they danced through the market stalls and the buntin lined streets, where they said the pale sand hued cobblestone was paved with gold. Gerion's long arms twirled her and she spun, lifted and threw her as she flew through the air, and the people of the streets watched their Lord and Lady Lannister twirl and whirl, leap, sway and gyrate to the sound of their own music and the beat of their own drum. The people of Lannisport clapped and cheered, the children danced clumsily and men took hold of their wives and their skirts flew and they dipped.

People would talk about that day for years to come, and as they grew old and their children grew up too fast they would watched Diamon walk by and remember her as the smiling child that danced with her Uncle for no reason other than she could. The people old enough to remember her late Lord Grandfather, the Laughing Lion, the _Toothless_ Lion, blinked their milky eyes in disbelief, for surely it was no other than Tytos Lannister that blessed the halls of Casterly Rock with the sweet sound of laughter once more.

An old man placed a wither hand upon his wives shoulder, "If only that dog knight was here to see it, the kennelmaster boy-"

"Clegane?" She placated him softly, her memory much sharper than his own.

"Yes- Yes! Clegane!" He agreed excitedly, "I wonder if her Lady will raise men to knighthoods of their own, still!"

Diamon was having fun, and it seemed as if she'd never tire as her and Gerion fell into the step of a hearty jig, thier own version being much more lively than anyone had ever seen before. The people prayed he'd win, just to see that jig again- the men dreamed of the mead and the ale that would be poured, the women of the music and the long line of bards that would line up to play for them, because surely just one simply wouldn't be able to keep up, and the children had never seen anything as great as the knight that spun Diamon around. They all knew the little Lady Lannister, their parents had seen them play with one another and their older siblings had often taken part, and everyone seemed to adore her then as she danced with old men and helped the smaller children spin without losing balance. Gerion did handstands and somersaults and vault jumps, he managed to turn his body in ways they had never seen before, and he could walk on his hands and do one handed cartwheels that men twice his strength wouldn't have the guts to complete.

The Tourney at Lannisport for the birth of Prince Visery's would be a day to remember, and to the people of Lannisport it meant a lot more than the birth of a new Prince or a royal visit from the King.

Uncle and Niece, holding each others hands and holding each other at arm's length with an unbreakable grip, spun precariously as the world around them blurred, denounced to colours and shapes as speed overcame them.

"If I win I shall crown you the Queen of Love and Beauty, niece." Gerion declared, bold as brass and looking as handsome as ever then.

Diamon's laughter rang out, and she descended to giggles as she span round and round and round until the world was off kilter and dizziness overcame her. "Faster, Uncle, faster!" She got out through her peals of laughter.

He let go then, both of them too dizzy to hold their footing.

Gerion was sent flying, knocked on his arse, leaning back as his head span and laughing, still.

It was during this particularly dizzying twirl that sent her skirts up and her arms spread out wide that Diamon collided with a hard figure- and she would have been sent sprawling by this immovable force if not for the strong hand that coiled around her arm, catching her just in time.

She spotted her Uncle with his head thrown back, laughing, and she couldn't help but to laugh too.

Strong arms settled on her shoulders, righting her and once more she was bound to earth. "Are you quite alright?"

Diamon could feel more laughter bubbling at her chest, and she gave a breathless chuckle as she replied. "You should try it, Ser. There's nothing better than the feeling of losing yourself on such a fine morning."

"Is that what you were doing?" The voice asked, amused. "Losing yourself?"

"Well, it's hard for one to keep track of themselves while so dizzy."

Winded, she looked up to meet the violet eyes of none other than Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, and at his hip was the greatsword Dawn. He was a tall man, in a heavy suit of armour that paled in comparison to his tanned skin and the dark stubble at his cheeks that set his strong jawline. He had fair hair on the darker side, seemingly black till the light hit and gave it a caramel highlight and a reddish brown hue in the backlight. He was handsome, and strong, and everything and more that the stories told. If she hadn't already been out of breath she would have lost it, then, peering up at her brother's hero with wide eyes.

It didn't occur to her to apologise, or to bow her head in respect or shame, and later on she would think nothing of it anyway, for he certainly didn't seem to mind.

He smiled, "Ser Arthur Dayne." He introduced himself, smiling down at her.

Diamon grinned toothily up at him, eyes light with excitement. "I'm Diamon Lannister, ser."

* * *

"Ow!" Diamon cried out, wrenching away from her Auntie's stern grip. "Uh-oww-uch, Aunt Genna, that _hurts!"_ She moaned, flinching as the hair brush met the crown of her head with a sharp _thwack!_

"Well, I would of had more time to take care if you hadn't of run amok this morning!" Genna chided, going back to the strenuous task of de-knotting and smoothing out Diamon's plentiful curls.

"I said I was sorry!" The child huffed in protest, gritting her teeth in frustration.

"That Gerion! That fool hardy brother of mine! I have mind to wring his neck when I next see him, letting you run off like that and making a spectacle of himself!"

"It's called _fun."_ Diamon drawled, exasperated with the beatings and the dresses and most especially her _hair._

Cersei narrowed her eyes, she was staring at herself in the mirror like she had been the last hour or so, and the sisters saw each other through the reflection. "Really, Diamon, you'd have fun with anyone."

"Those people are my friends."

"And you'll make friends with anyone." Cersei scoffed, "Whores, decrepits and fools, what sort of company do they keep?!"

"Better than yours!" Daimon snapped, ducking against her Auntie's quick movement with the backside of the brush. She truly was a force to be reckoned with, a lioness in her own right and most certainly the strongest woman Diamon had ever met. "Don't hit me, I'm telling the truth!"

Genna sighed, smoothing out her unruly niece's hair with a fondness and chagrin that was entirely her own. "Enough bickering, the both of you. You want to look representable for the Tourney, hmm?"

"Yes." Cersei's smooth tone sounded in affirmation while Diamon gave a sulky, "No."

The two sisters glared into the reflection of the mirror once more, and Genna smiled.

"Cersei, stop frowning. Diamon, if you don't sit still you won't be seeing the Tourney."

Diamon stilled, a bout of placidness overcoming her all at once as Cersei went back to smoothing out her dress and craning her slender neck to check her hair once more.

Things went like that for a good while, and Diamon's hair was completely done by the time things fell apart. It was in these intricate little braids that knotted high on her head, two hanging down draped over her shoulders, one on either side, and two braided from her neck up to her crown and meeting at the knot that seemed awfully complex. It was a lot more complicated than it had any right to be, what with it just being hair and all, and undoubtedly a few stray curls fell and framed her face, because her hair had never done as it was told just like her.

She was wearing a green dress that complimented her hair and eyes, a deep shade with a gold trim with the forest green fabric cut open at the front and a gold skirt peeking underneath. Aunt Genna had watched the fitting with a keen eye, quick to point out what was wrong and what was right. She was a loud woman, outspoken- She didn't like the cut of Cersei's dress and Diamon's was entirely the wrong shade of gold, too orange- it should be more yellow. Diamon thought the darker shade was nicer anyway, and was happy that the dressmaker did it wrong.

Cersei was wearing a crimson gown, and her gold was much more yellow, the trim almost sheer. It's cut, not entirely unlike Diamon's, was at her not-so-rapidly developing bosom rather than the skirt, where the gold peaked through with a frilly white trim that made her slender figure look sleek and well fitted rather than the gangly whims of puberty that she was currently cursed with. It made her hair seem blonder, too.

"You're not going to marry the Prince." Diamon told her, not spitefully. "Father has no control over that sort of thing, he can't choose who marries Rhaegar."

She only said it because it was true, not because she wanted her sister to be upset with her. It didn't seem fair to let someone get excited, to let them indulge in anything other than the truth, because she'd hate to see her sister cry today of all days.

"You don't know what you're talking about." Cersei sniffed, smoothing out her skirts and looking entirely too adult while she did it.

"Yes I do." Diamon insisted, "What says he'll make a good husband, anyway?"

"I love him." She insisted, "He's perfect and I love him."

"Calm down, the both of you." Genna warned.

Aunt Genna had been the one to speak the idea of Diamon marrying to a Darry boy aloud and Cersei was apparently to be matched with the Crown Prince. Diamon knew all this to be true in intent and intent only, there had been no official request or confirmation yet, and her talk with Jaime had inspired a new hope in her chest. Perhaps she wasn't to be married off yet, and the same could be said for her sister.

* * *

 **(AN: If anyone's wondering, I imagine Gerion to look like Heath Ledger from a Knight's Tale, but taller (even though Heath was already 6 foot) and as a result, leaner. I see Tygett to be a very stocky Alexander Skarsgard (check out Tru Blood's Eric Northman as a Viking).**

 **I love Diamon and Gerion's interactions, it's really nice for her to idolise her Uncle the same way I did as a child. Also, for those who have read the books, the way things turns out is sadly reminiscent to my own life, so I can empathise with what the future holds for their bond.**

 **NEXT CHAPTER: The actual fucking tourney smh.** )


	5. Chapter Five, The Tourney pt III

She hoisted herself into the small capabality of space on the ledge of a narrow window, eyes alight with excitement as she saw the looming poles and the colourful decorations for the Tourney erect with the sun at its peak for just gone noon. They would be spending an entire afternoon watching the knights play, the bard's at the ready to sing for them and entertain when the fighting lulled or the equipment took too long. Her Lord Father would lend them not one but two cups of wine for this momentous event, and it was the sweet summer wine from Dorne that tasted better than any she would ever taste before.

From where she sat, perched and leaning precariously with no surefoot hold, she could spot the golden armour of her Uncle's and Lannister men, with their cupholders baring crimson banners with gold lions and jousting lances streamed with winding red ribbon. She saw the dragon of Prince Rhaegar at high mast, attracting a crowd of ladies in all sorts of dresses and gowns, surrounded by the Kingsguard men; Ser Arthur Dayne among them.

The actual Prince whose birth the Tourney was held in celebration was not in attendance, she knew, and she'd heard Father and his men's whispering of the King's exceeding distrust. It worried her, because King's had come and gone and done terrible things, and she wondered what would happen if the King ultimately didn't favour her Father like he so rightly _should_.

Tywin Lannister, the Great Lion of the Rock, was the most powerful Lord in all the Seven Kingdoms. Her Father was the Warden of the Western lands and the Hand of the King and the Lord of Casterly Rock, and he led whoever had the pleasure of serving him into profitable and song worthy victory, always. Overhearing the King's distrust and doubt had made Diamon curious, but all those questions vanished when he saw his wrong eyes and wrong smile.

She thought it was better that the dragon wasn't fond of the lion, because there was something about him… an air of madness and paranoia, that disturbed her.

Somehow she doubted there had ever been a Tourney so fine or as grand, not anywhere else in the world; for then, in the eyes of her childhood home and the sweet sentiment of a child, it seemed as if Lannisport was the entire world. Momentarily, though not for long, she forgot about the treasure and the cliffs and the call to the sea, and she just looked out at the expanse of land her family had held for centuries. Her heart swelled at the colourful sight of pavilion tents that came in all shapes and sizes and colour, the silken ones folded in an expanse of fabric that slinked whenever a soft wind blew, the linen ones stiff as they swayed. Banners were hung proudly from the center poles, some were connected like dots in a maze of buntin, and she spied crowned stags and huntsman and dogs and arrows that were all hung high for the houses and an array of other sigils.

The air smelled different, sweet like the wine and the treats they sold at the wooden crates assembled in some queer fashion to resemble a counter to exchange coppers atop for sweetened goods. They were all colourful too, painted in stripes of sunny yellows and sky blues and every shade of red you could think of. Those same beaten boxes, probably swiped from some poor farm hand that would get a good clout around the ear for it, were built into hasty showrooms- looking like poor imitations of the real thing that had wheels and proper curtains- and they had made soddy patchwork fabrics and homemade puppets to put on cheap shows and make coin.

Diamon gripped her gold chain as she hung out the window, only suspended by the strength of her one arm with one foot on the sill, feeling the chilled face of the moon and it's pointed features in the palm of one chubby little hand.

Suddenly, a heavy hand fell to her shoulders, and when she looked she saw her Lord Father's stern face with his steady gaze settled on hers.

"Come, Diamon." He told her, and despite his solemn look his hand felt warm against her bare shoulder, calloused fingers melding her soft flesh in a comforting squeeze before he dropped his hold altogether.

"Did you do it all, Father?" She asked of him, careful not to lose her balance as she climbed from the window, where usually she would just jump- but she was always more careful around him, looking to please like all eager children did, not yet as jaded in her outlook as the elder Lannister children.

"Did I build the Tourney single handedly?" He raised his brow, giving her a pointed look, though with kinder eyes than most had seen.

She grinned, shaking her head in a timid fashion unbecoming of her, but Aunt Genna would beat her black and blue if she ruined her hair. It wasn't often she'd feel condescended by his tone, she always sought out the meaning of it all like she did with the books in the library. "No, not build it! You planned it all though, didn't you? It's a success because you made it so."

He nodded, and no one would ever see the way he used purposefully slow steps so that she could keep up with him comfortably, or how he almost slouched a little so as to look her in the eye when they spoke. "Perhaps. Would you like to plan a Tourney one day?"

Diamon's steps faltered and slowed when she was thinking, as children were prone to do, and so did his. She frowned, looking down quickly before risking a glance at her Father and his impossibly tall frame- she was tall, growing taller still, but nothing made her feel so small than as to stand next to him. Almost comically, she puffed out her chest, and regarded him with the utmost serious expression, her voice important and composed; "I want to honour my house, to do our family proud. The Tourney represents us, and because it's ours we have to make it better than the rest. It will be our legacy."

Tywin let his lips lift in to the semblance of a smile, one that was barely there and would often be put down to a trick of the light by Cersei in their later years; but let it be told that Tywin Lannister did, in fact, smile, and he found himself increasing doing so in the presence of his youngest daughter, whom seemed to take to his teachings better than the rest of them ever would.

"Yes, exactly. And one day, you'll be a Lady grown with a House of your own to care for, but you'll still be a Lannister." His hand was on her back, pushing her to pick up the pace a little, but it was an affectionate touch that made her smile all the same.

Diamon nodded, "Always."

The two walked on, along the halls of their home, in silence, and he had given Diamon a lot to think about that day.

Her Father was an intimidating man, but she had learnt to find the firm voice and distinct air of power to be a comfort over time- because he was her Father, and she loved him with all her heart despite the coldness that rarely seemed to thaw in his eyes, and she wouldn't remember that he was a happier man when her Mother had lived, she wouldn't remember the time her Mother was around at all in fact. Just rare smiles and a pride that was as close to love as she would ever get, maybe.

She thought a lot about the inner workings of the Tourney, and what it meant. But mostly she was occupied with the idea of being a Lannister, and the notion that marriage could not break her. Marrying a Darry boy, while not out of the question, would make her no less a Lannister.

Diamon stood taller for the rest of the day, well into the night. She thought of the Lord's pavilions every colour possible, and the children that mewled along with the shows. One day, she thought, one day I'll look after a great house just like Father.

She looked at her Lord Father, his wispy hair a muted gold that she thought shone brighter than the sun, like the gold in the rock pools hidden away.

Diamon thought long and hard. I'll still be a lion, though, a lion of lannister decanted in reds and golds brighter than the wildflowers in the fields.

* * *

They announced the men in long listed ways and honeydew voices, reeling off one great house after another and soaking in the polite applause and the occasional cheers. It was getting hotter, the summer air festered into the sweat soaked anticipation and could veer either direction- Diamon had told her Father it was good timing, that the people were restless in the heat and that the promise of a good fight would serve them as well as the sweet Dornish wine. He accepted her comments like he had planned it all along, and she wouldn't have been surprised if it had been as such, she thought her Father might've been the smartest man she'd ever known.

Diamon rocked on her heels, shoes long abandoned, wheeling forward to peer curiously as the men began to ride. Aunt Genna had given up pulling the girl back and telling her to stand straight, it was no use, and Tywin didn't seem to mind it.

The Lord's horses were grand things, with ribbons braided into their hair and the mane's sporting the odd cut that looked expensive. One of them had hair spouting in circular stubs, another with plaits wrapped around the ears like muffs. She spotted one, a foreign breed, with lovely blonde curls and a grey coat spotted black like soot. Another, pure black, with eyes so dark that it almost looked like an empty socket, and the shine against his almost wet looking coat was slick like oil. Chestnut mares that looked red in the sunlight, a fool riding a percheron with stunted legs that reminded her of Tyrion, the tallest horse she had ever seen; a shire with flowers entwined with beads adorning its flowing mane.

"One day I'm going to have a horse like that," Jaime told his sisters, "and I'll ride in Tourneys just like this."

"Oh, hush now, Jaime, enjoy your youth while you still have it. You would be wise not to wish it away so soon, now." Genna told him with scorn.

Diamon grinned, "He don't have to be no older than he does bigger, Auntie, surely." and then, to Jaime, "I suppose you'll be tall, Jaime, like a man grown soon 'nough. You'll be able to fight better than those old coots."

Jaime and her laughed, and Cersei cracked a smile nonetheless. The three Lannister children paid no mind to their Aunt Genna when she began to chide, despite the woman's demanding presence, they could tell there was no heart in it.

"What about me, then, sister? Pray do tell." Cersei settled her bony elbows on her knees, a delicate hand resting against her cheek- not even she could deny the excitement of seeing Prince Rhaegar and Ser Arthur Dayne ride in the listings.

Like one of those pretty girls from the shows, Diamon tipped her head and fell into a jaunty bow, eyes gleaming something wicked. She took her elder sister's hand, placing a terse kiss upon her knuckles and falling to her knees. It was all exaggerated and clumsy in movement, humorous like a court's fool but perfectly enacted. Gerion had taught her what he called 'rough and tumble', where she learnt how to take stage falls and do the strangest of tricks.

"Beauty! Beauty, still! With hair like gold and lips redder than the richest wine and finest dye!" She promised, thrusting her free hand to her chest where she wagered might be where her heart was. Jaime leaned over to move her hand a little, to set it on the right side of her chest, which only made it all the more funny to the children. "Oh, Cersei, no delicate rose and all thorns, your beauty will make men bleed! You'll be the most beautiful woman in all the seven kingdoms- and Jaime the best swordsman, too."

"What about you, Dai?"

"Me? Why, I'll be an explorer, surely. I'll find the best treasure and I'll lavish you both in jewels and finery- What else?"

Genna, fed up, grabbed the girl by her neckline. "Get up! Up, now! Sitting on the floor in that dress of all things, child, Gods be good!"

Tyrion, settled upon Aunt Genna's knee and being jumbled about, gurgled happily. Diamon, who took to babe's better than both the twins and half the milk maids alike, cleaned his mouth with a soft cloth and persuaded her baby brother to smile even wider. She poked his too large nose with a curious sound and he waved his arms with a laugh. Aunt Genna practically beamed at the young girl, her fond ire forgotten despite the discarded shoes and the girl's loosened braids.

One man, with a lion's helm and an equally golden horse- a tall, strong breed with its lean body riddled with muscle and a sandy coat much like the owner- strayed from the alignment in a grandeur strut. It looked like the stepper was dancing, his a jig of his own stairway tempo, a gambol of hooves against soft bred ground that bounced with a little give. Soft ground and a golden sun, she thought they were perfect for today of all days.

The crowd broke into delightful screams as he did a lap around the yard, and he rode like he was half horse himself, looking a champion in all his finery and finesse- It was her Uncle Gerion, no doubt, with Tygett shaking his head as he took his own place in line.

Tygett himself was nothing to shrink at, his stallion was the biggest and his muscular frame was almost that of a giants. He held no finery, showed no lavish tricks to appease the small folk and the Ladies in waiting, and Diamon supposed he didn't have to. His war horse was called Brutus, and he was the biggest horse she had ever seen, twice and near thrice her height and bigger than any man she'd come to know, and he'd cost a pretty penny, too. Money well spent, she thought in awe, never having been allowed to near him for her Uncle warned it's temperament was fearsome at the best of times; just like his, she supposed.

Of course, she'd had many a go on Gerion's steed, its name was Asher and it was a showboat. She'd never seen a horse with such clever eyes before, didn't know a horse's eyes could be clever at all, but Asher reminded her in many ways of a hunting dog or something different altogether.

She thought, then, as the horses and the Knight's trodden against the ground and put on their grand show, that the Gods were present. Brutus was a gift from The Warrior, no doubt, given strength and the courage to tread fearlessly into battle, not as easily scared as other beasts or skittish by nature, but enough to give some nightmares. And as Gerion tipped his helmet, she caught sight of Asher's yellow eyes, a hazle colour that sometimes gleamed like the sun, and she knew then that he was of The Smith. Crafty, with eyes the went fluid like liquid and shone with a cleverness no beast should be privy to.

Cersei commented on the horses, and Diamon thought about mentioning the Gods, but ultimately decided not to share. Her sister favoured Brutus, for the fear he invoked and inspired in its peers, the brute force he displayed seemed to entice her for the same reason it endeared Tygett. Jaime, much like Diamon, favoured Asher for its speed and wiry muscles, envying the agility and surprisingly languid way it moved that conjured all sorts when it came to battles and knights in the young boy's mind. Diamon liked Asher because of his brains, the wordless communication it shared with Gerion and the way in which it moved so seamlessly.

The siblings could never agree all the time, not when Cersei valued gawdy displays of power and demonstrations that came across as cruel and Jaime was so infatuated with fighting. Diamon wondered what Tyrion would come to value, and she wondered what it was that she herself valued above all.

Like the showman he was, or perhaps it hadn't been planned at all and things just fell into place the way they sometimes did; Asher came to a natural halt at the balcony, giving an earnest snort as he stamped his hoof once, twice, thrice. Gerion's plentiful tresses spilled from his helm, pooling at the stiff armoury that overhung chainmail clad arms, a beautiful smile brimming at his lips.

The smallfolk's cries grew louder, somehow. Women and girls swooned, the men roared with good mirth, and Gerion took it in stride ardently as he took his bow.

Then, it was Prince Rhaegar's turn to rush the yard, his black armour hitting the light and the colour shifting like liquid. Diamon saw the rubies that glistened and almost seemed to catch alight as they flared their fiery red, but she much preferred gold.

Cersei mustn't have agreed, for she cooed with the best of them, though much prettier. Watching her sister, sparing the Crown Prince another considering look, it was entirely lost on her as to what the other girls were seeing. He was just a man, a pretty man but a man all the same- and hadn't she spent her life surrounded by beautiful things in the first place?

To her delight her Uncle approached then, riding like a champion, as if he already had the Tourney won.

"I beg of the fair Lady Diamon, my lovely niece, would she gift me a token?" Gerion gave a fool's smile, white teeth bared as he looked positively gorgeous in his golden armour.

Diamon was bent over the wall, feet off the ground as she threw her arms toward her laughing Uncle. Her arms wrapped around the railings writhe with ribbons and slipped silk, the fabric however soft seemed to burn and rub horribly against her hands, but she laughed anyway. Always laughing.

She grabbed at the Moon pendant, bending so far forward that the necklace hung from her neck and dangled down instead of falling too long at her chest, the chain spilling plentifully and unwinding from her head. Gerion's arms steadied hers, and like a lasso she threw the locket over his head instead, falling forward more and letting her hands rest on his armoured shoulders.

"Many thanks, fair Lady," he teased, "you'll be cheering for me, I hope?"

Green eyes glowed, smiling at one another.

"Of course, Uncle!"

She bestowed a big wet kiss on each of his cheeks, and he took her face in his hands and peppered little pecks all over with wet smacks. His lips tickled and she giggled, grabbing him even tighter when she felt herself slip and trying to wrench away from his onslaught of kisses helplessly.

"Stop, Gery, stop it!" She giggled, "it _tickles!"_

Jaime grabbed her by the middle, lifting her away from their Uncle's grasps and hauling her back over the railing, where a fretful Genna was just about ready to throw herself over the railings to get to her brother herself- "Letting her practically _fall_ from this height! Gery you _wretch!"_

Gerion laughed, loudly and carelessly. Diamon thought he'd laugh in the face of the Gods if it pleased him, that a man like Gerion could live forever on laughter alone.

"If I get down there I'll beat you myself! Tourney be damned, brother, I'll ring your neck!"

Tyrion, still half seated in her lap while being smothered by her plentiful bosom, flailed in protest.

Not so far away Tywin regarded his children and brother's antics plainly. It didn't surprise him anymore than Tygett's booming voice and Genna's stern affection, but he still felt distaste for the laughter Gerion seemed so fond of- for what his youngest had taken up as her own (Tywin liked to pretend he had no other children, no dwarf staring back at him like a stain upon the family name, because he should have drowned the imp the day he killed his own Mother).

Their bond never failed to pique his interest, Gerion had been the one present at Diamon's birth, his visits had been few and far between but he'd no more than opened the door when Joanna's waters had broke. But Tywin Lannister didn't think of the past much, not as he grew older and his Lady wife's death warmed over. He couldn't stand it any more than he could the Imp or laughter. Instead he occupied his mind with thoughts of the future, of his family and his legacy, because he wouldn't be alive forever. Death, it seemed, was the only thing Tywin could not defeat.

He considered his children often, he'd taught Jaime to read himself and his son's lessons had persisted since then. Cersei he had hopes to crown, and she listened well, perhaps not as well as he wanted. The twins had been promising, his heir and his daughter, with Jaime fighting like a sword was an extension of his own hand and Cersei more than apt in running a household like an upstanding Lady should. But it was Diamon who he considered the most, for the way she acted like her Mother, perhaps.

Beside him, he felt the King move, ever restless. Aerys had always failed to keep still, but Tywin had noticed the way the Iron Throne cut the King as of late, how the few that scattered across the King's skin had increased over time, going deeper and bleeding longer and covering the arms like jewelry. Scabbed skin puckered like scales, peeling and bleeding sluggishly.

"She's a winsome girl, well loved." The King mused, "Look at the people, how they cheer for her! She gives them a smile and they swoon! The bards- I saw one of them sing a song just for her, she received it well, too. I daresay they'll sing more."

Tywin, stone faced, lulled his head to the side in careful consideration. "Yes, your Grace, well observed."

"Well observed, ey?" Aerys echoed mockingly, sparse lips screwing into a twisted smile, "Well observed, indeed! The girl's a prize, Lannister, are you _sure_ she's of your own stock?"

The Lord of Casterly Rock showed no inclination of the words having any affect, he sat still as ever with a respectful interest; no more. The slight against himself and the faithfulness of his late Wife did not wager on his mind, instead he found himself watching his youngest daughter fawn over his brother.

"Certainly, your Grace."

"Perhaps you'll show her to court, she's wasted here. A flower deserves to be praised, bloomed or not. Maybe we'll make a Darry of her yet."

* * *

"Your Uncles rode well this afternoon," Ser Arthur told her on the second day of the Tourney.

The sun was bright and the people often commented on its look of Lannister gold, and Ser Arthur Dayne had appeared beside her suddenly as if seeking her out all along.

She grinned up at the handsome knight, "Are you excited to ride again tomorrow?"

Her Uncles had indeed fought well. Tygg hit Ser Brax's breastplate so hard that the steel had dented in like it had been hit with a smithy's hammer, removing the plate had taken more than three cupbearers and the help of a chamberpot girl if the rumours were to be minded. They could hear Gerion's laughter six tents over. One of the guards that her Father had the good mind to employ over his children had commented that the little Lord owed Tygett a sum of money. Diamon didn't believe it one bit, because if he did owe her Uncle money they would have had to bury him with the breastplate still attached. Herself and the twins couldn't for the life of them remember which Brax boy it had been, Andros or Rupert, and for all their bickering none of them truly cared what his name was, his chest would be purple for months to come no matter what they called him.

Gerion had outrode the best of them, Asher's coat glossier than ever as if it were possible to show off anymore than the pair of them had already. His horse was better than even Prince Rhaegar's, though she knew better than to share such a sentiment aloud- Cersei would have her head, nevermind the King's men and their guards.

Her smile almost broke her face, it felt like, when Ser Arthur Dayne commented on how well Gerion rode in the courtyard that morning. It was impossible for her to not like the winsome Kingsguard when he spoke so highly of her loved ones and their capabilities- she was dying for him to see Jaime fight, but Father had said he was far too young to take part. Ten years old was long enough for Jaime, a lifetime if he'd ever known one, and to Diamon it didn't seem so young at all.

Together, Arthur and her walked down the steps that led to some alleyways, the city of Lannistport might have looked a golden maze of sandstone to onlookers and strangers. She'd walked those streets her entire life, and she thought Ser Arthur was doing just fine navigating his way around.

"Tourneys are all in good fun, Lady Diamon, but they can't beat real fighting," he said, earnest in his almost shameful smile.

Men like him- the man Jaime would become, she'd wager- loved fighting above all. Ser Arthur must have loved it sure enough, why else would men readily sign away the prospect of a love of a good woman if not for the love of something greater? Duty, honor, all fleeting as piss in the wind. Her Father spoke often of legacy, and he ensured such through his children, but what would Arthur Dayne have when he was gone?

Looking at him, she swore it would be an impossible feat to forget such a man. For all his fight, and for the things to come.

"They're not meant to," she said, "it's just a bit of excitement for the people. The point of it is so that it's not a real fight, that way people can forget how cruel the world can be at times."

He smiled, brilliantly. "You sound like Rhaegar."

"No, ser. I do believe I sound like some long dead writer the Maester has me slaving over day and night."

Diamon was good with books. Words had a natural way of coming to her, if she encountered a new word she could almost always decipher the meaning without having to ask. Books were, to her, what a sword was to Jaime- perhaps even Arthur and Tygg, too. But it was laughter that was her true love in life, laughter and adventure and that beautiful feeling blossoming in her gut.

"Just like Rhaegar, then. He loves his books and harp more than the stars in the sky."

He smiled, it was rueful and perhaps made him look even more so handsome, if such were possible. There was a certain air of discipline around him, from his carefully crafted muscle and the way he kept at least one hand on the sheath of his blade at all times.

Decisively, she didn't like it when he got lost in his head, she didn't need any insight to know there must be horrors and a heaviness there, and so she gave him her best grin. Gerion said it was worth more than anything money could buy, despite what people thought they knew about Lannisters.

"I much prefer the stars. Books talk too much."

Ser Arthur laughed at the unruly child, nodding.

It must have looked funny to see them, with him twice her height and a Knight of the Kingsguard no less. His sword weighed more than her, she'd wager, and she had mud across her cheeks and soot clinging to the ends of her dress. She thought she'd rather like to see herself and Arthur walking, it would surely make her laugh.

"The Tourney won't go on much longer," he nodded towards the stalls and the groups of young lads enacting a joust. "I do believe they're paying homage to your Uncle's, my Lady."

"Maybe," she agreed, "they're favourites for today, even against the crown Prince. I hope Gerion wins, wouldn't it be grand if he did? He'd dance and drink for days, no one would get any rest, not while he was still standing. Not while he can make a fist."

Arthur gave a hearty laugh, clasping her on the back gently. "I'd pay to see it, surely. It wouldn't be too presumptuous of me to believe you'd be right up there with him, would it?"

"I'd dance on the tables at the feast if it meant Gerion joined me."

* * *

The pair of the Lannister girls were imprisoned in Cersei's chambers, where Aunt Genna had forced the two to spend some quality time together. Surprisingly, neither minded any. Cersei was too occupied worrying herself, and Jeyne and Melara had done nothing to soothe her frayed nerves, and so she indulged in a goblet of spiced wine she had scared the servants into handing over. Genna had given her a tongue lashing, though she could hardly stand to do much more when she saw how anxious her pretty and usually composed niece looked. Likewise, Diamon had gotten into enough trouble after her highly strung Aunt found herself and Jaime daring one another to jump off the steepled cliffside by the beach. Said she had a right mind to tell their Father, but she wouldn't. Her brother had been sent to his room, and when Gerion had found himself defending her own antics she'd been quickly placed into Cersei's chambers if only to not broaden her vocabulary of less than proper language.

"What am I going to do with you kids?" Genna said, and there was no warmth in her voice for once.

"Gen, they're young-" Gerion started, looking serious for once.

"Don't."

Diamon looked between her Uncle and Aunt, eyes sleep riddled and limbs lazy as she shuffled across the floor. She didn't like how quiet her loud and boisterous Aunt was, in that moment, and she didn't like the part she'd played in making her feel that way.

"We did worse, when we were that age."

"What if I want better for Tywin's children? Gods knows they deserve it," Genna told him, not meanly. "Go on, Gery, they'll have your horse saddled for you by the time you get there."

Gerion looked conflicted, but he nodded slowly anyways. "We'll talk later."

"There's no time."

"I'll make the time," he promised.

Genna didn't look very optimistic, but Diamon couldn't understand why. Her Uncle with his grin's and smiles had never been unreliable, he'd always kept his word. She didn't think it fair to think less of him that honorable when it came to his word, but Genna had been as good as a Mother to her and she couldn't tell her as much.

The two of them walked in relative silence, with her dragging her shoes across the stone and a deep ache in her legs from riding ponies just that morning. Gerion let her have a go on Asher, and even Tygett had hauled her up atop Brutus- though he'd had a steady hold of her and the horse the entire time. She had lost count of how many rounds around the yard she had had, it seemed like an age ago now when it had only happened this morning. Ser Arthur Dayne had indulged her with a game of chase, she'd read aloud to Tyrion in his cot when the milk nurse left, and Tygett had found her before it was his turn in the joust to play a tiring game of Crevasse that in her opinion lasted far too long. When her brother had suggested the cliff dive the only thing stopping her had been her eyes fluttering shut as the sea salted wind fared against her face.

"Genna?" She said, eventually. Cersei's chambers were right around the corner, and Diamon could no longer hold her silence.

Her Aunt did not spare her a glance, brisk in the way she marched her unruly Niece through the halls of the Rock, but she did lend an ear. She was like their Mother, and she cared for them as such. Diamon couldn't stand upsetting her anymore than she could her Father.

"I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

She knew, then, that she'd even give up the rock pools in the cliff's if it meant Genna could sleep easily.

"Gery's right, you know," Genna said. "We did get up to worse. And we always said we wouldn't do it again. It never stopped us, in the end."

Her keen eyes made Diamon shift uneasily, the pair of them had stopped before they reached the door and she wanted to melt to the floor with that gaze aimed in her direction.

"You're a good girl, Diamon. You're smart. Too smart. Sometimes I think it would have been easier if you were born a fool, you and Cersei, both."

"But not Jaime?" She dared to ask, with her wide curious eyes brimming with hurt.

"Not Jaime." She agreed, solemnly.

Now, sprawled out with the warmth of fine coverlet's and silky fabric, she could barely stand to stay awake any longer. Genna's words swam around her head, though it would do her no good, she couldn't bare to think on it then.

Standing at the attention of a tall ornate mirror, Cersei smoothed out the folds of her dress almost compulsory despite the fabric not so much as harboring a crease.

"At the feast," She admitted, if not purposely aloud then to her reflection, looking pale if not for the flush at her cheeks. "He'll ask for my hand at the feast, and I'll be his Queen."

She didn't speak of it around Jaime, and neither did Diamon, for they both knew better.

At seven and ten the crown Prince Rhaegar was a newly anointed Knight, but that wouldn't deter Jaime any. No, she thought, he'd grab the sharpest blade he could find and if given the chance he would slay the Dragon, he'd push the blade through his belly like he was nothing but a pot roast pig. He'd die, trying, too. Jaime couldn't know of these fanciful thoughts of his sister, Diamon somehow knew as much without really knowing anything at all.

 _Not Jaime._

"And if he doesn't ask?" Diamon asked, slowly. She frowned at her sister, her steady reflection as she collected herself in some regal manner. "If you don't marry the Prince… What then?"

She was fearless, then. She'd ask questions even if she dreaded the answer, even if it scared her witless. Absently, she thought that maybe Genna wished she was a coward as well as a fool. _Not Jaime, Not Jaime, Not Jaime._

"I don't know what I'll do, Dai. I always wanted to be a Queen, I've never wanted anything more than to be his Queen," she admitted, looking almost scared as she stared into her reflection.

"You'll always be my sister," Diamon said, for lack of anything else to say. She sort of felt the fool, then. "I'll always love you, Cersei. More than any Queen, more than any crown. I'll crown you myself, if I have to."

"What if that's not enough?"

She was scared, too, Diamon realised. Even lion's got scared sometimes, even golden ones.

Grinning sleepily, because she'd smile in the face of fear with grace, a yawn that almost looked like a mighty roar took her suddenly, and she felt a familiar warmth of sleep tug at her aching mind. "Then I'll get you two crowns. Even the King only has one."

Cersei laughed. She couldn't help it, couldn't stand not too. It was the first time she let herself admit that her sister was funny, and not in the disparaging way she'd comment of at dinner.

Somehow, the pair of them both ended up in the bed, and they slept wrapped up in one another's embrace. Diamon with a face full of Cersei's hair and Cersei's face burrowed into Diamon's own unruly mane. Arms thrown over one another, warmer than blankets could ever be.

Genna might have checked up on them, and she might have stood in that doorway for a long while, smiling.

It was much later, dusk taking the skies by a mighty sweep, when the room was glowing by candlelight alone. Diamon awoke to Cersei's face scant an inch from her own, her pale skin half lit by the warmth of fire and her green eyes trembling with excitement.

"Wake up, Daimon," she said.

Diamon was tempted to take a swipe at her, like a cub with deft paws, she was already awake, and like most children she didn't appreciate being woken up. "Cersei, it's late," she whined.

The older sister dug sharp nails into her arm, knowing that Diamon wasn't one to whine- it would do no good to start now. "We must leave, quickly!"

"What for?" She groused, "Did they set Casterly Rock alight? Where's the smoke?"

Cersei had never been a patient girl.

The two of them, wrapped up in thick coats, because even in the summer it still got cold of a night, left the warmth and safety of their chambers. Cersei had taken a hard grip on Diamon's hand, squeezing the life out of it, and the little girl was far too tired to complain.

Two figures, equally as covered with their too big hood's but not nearly as warm in their inexpensive quality, were awaiting them in the courtyard. The fat one looked far too meek to be impatient, it was a quality her eldest sister only really bothered to indulge in, herself and Jaime much preferring to let things happen at their own pace.

"You're late, did you run into any trouble?"

Diamon recognised Melara Hetherspoon's voice, she was a bold girl, bolder than even Cersei. She spied her freckled face from beneath the hood, a toothy smile glimpsing at them and silent, mocking laughter. It was like she knew things she shouldn't, things she hid behind her smile.

The other girl, the fat one, now that Diamon got a good look at her, was Jeyne Farman. She shushed Melara hastily, looking between them all with barely concealed fright.

"Oh, I don't know about this-"

"Don't be craven, Jeyne," Melara straightened up considerably, a disturbing look in her almost black eyes. "The tent isn't so far, it's not like you'll have much to walk."

Melara took a hold of a torch from the wall, spilling hot embers and tinder that sprayed to the floor with a hot glow. She sweeped it away from the wind, so as to not let it go out, and it sent her face into an array of light and red tones momentarily- Diamon swore she saw the girl's skull staring at her, those black eyes of hers reduced to hollow, empty sockets, and the fire pulling her flesh back. Those freckles looked more like indents across bone, until suddenly her face was normal again.

Diamon didn't like Cersei's friends much, they reminded her of snarling animals in the way they bit at each other like that. Nothing but starved, rabid things, the loyalty and good grace knocked out of them for some reason or another. Her sister didn't so much as like them as she did command them, for she couldn't stand another person being in charge of them anymore than she could holding a conversation with them.

Looking at Jeyne, she wondered if this was what Genna meant. Girls like Melara were troublesome, and they were mean. Jeyne was too simple to be mean, her words were as sharp as butter, no witticism or cutting remark could save her.

Cersei let go of her hand, and they began to walk. Where, she did not know. She didn't think it'd do any good to ask, either.

It was almost a relief when they let her trail behind them, with Melara giving her heavy looks from ahead sometimes. She knew the older girl thought her a dirty tag along, and it wouldn't have meant a thing to her if she explained that her sister dragged her along, that she didn't follow anyone around at all. It wasn't even that Cersei brought her along, not really. Melara liked Jaime, and Diamon knew Jaime ignored her often. It wasn't Diamon's fault, Jaime would have ignored Cersei's friends whether his youngest sister had been around or not, but Melara was the kind of girl that had to lay blame elsewhere.

Jeyne tried to talk to her, but Diamon disliked her enough without being bored to death by her words. The girl was plump as a pig, and she'd often eaten more than her fair share of Diamon's favourite treats at luncheon- Jaime and herself would opt to spend noon in the fighting yard if only to miss the strife of their shrill conversation.

They walked across a trail long overgrown that went largely unused, not guarded and left ultimately unlit. The stone didn't so much as fade to dirt as it did get pushed out of place, long thick roots coming up from beneath the stones and dislodging the mortar, it was there that the pavement stopped suddenly, and long drudges of mud and dirt hardened by the sunny weather took its place. She played there, sometimes, when she wanted to be alone.

Melara was holding out the torch at arms length, and she let the others go first as if it was an afterthought- nobody could have made it across in the dark, the stones stuck out from the earth in crumbled and sharp moats, the kind that would send you sprawling and sprain an ankle awfully easy.

The trees were just dark, slender figures with long limbs that spidered across the sky and tangled into a deep hue mess. It was almost impossible to see the moon, Diamon wished more than anything that she was wearing her necklace, but it was currently in Gerion's possession and all she could do was tug the neckline of her cloak tirelessly.

"There it is! Just ahead, do you see it?" Melara waved the torch, standing on some high rocks to look above the treeline.

There was a tall peaked roof of a worn tent, it looked black from where they stood at a short distance- shorter than Diamon would have preferred- but in the embers she caught sight of its oversaturated dye, a deep green as dark as the dead leaves on the trees around it. There were long wooden pieces anchored by earth with small gaps in the fabric to let out smoke and incense, it almost looked like the torch had set it alight, though it was nothing more than an illusion. Rope, frayed at the end, winded around the poles, some tied up and other's left to fall down from the height, unravelling and swaying like hair in its tangled heaps.

It was Maggy the Frog's tent, the half mad witch from some foreign land who spoke in tongues.

Jeyne let out a high pitched noise, "Oh, we shouldn't be here… We shouldn't have come to this place!"

"Keep your voice down," Cersei hissed.

Melara turned, hair whipping precariously close to the flames and her hood fell from her head, fabric pooling at her shoulders and thwarting her slender neck. "Look at you, practically wetting yourself! Diamon isn't scared, are you?"

The much older girl turned an accusing eye on the littlest lion, she was awake now and staring at the tent with a firm frown marring her features.

"I'm not scared," Diamon told them, setting her chin stubbornly. "Lions aren't scared of frogs."

"See? Even babies don't get frightened- stop that squealing, you sound like a pig!"

Diamon wondered what the old woman would look like, if she really was some priestess with magic or a fraud that would try to take their coin. The other's, gathering their courage, were getting louder, now. Their fear made them stupid, maybe.

Now, more than ever, Diamon wished she was a fool. She wished she was a fool and a coward and that Cersei had never brought her to this place.

From the gaping entrance of the tent, a squat figure appeared, sheathed in the shadows.

* * *

 _ **(AN: I think that the way Tywin interacted with Arya would be similar to the way he spoke to Diamon. He'd be firm in his teachings, and in no way would he coddle her, but he'd be proud of her quick learning and the way she listens to him. While Cersei may think she's Tywin's daughter, I think that Diamon truly will be.**_

 _ **It's been a long wait, but this was a sixteen page document.**_

 _ **So, Diamon meets Maggy the Frog, if only the story ended there. Poor Diamon.)**_


End file.
